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late-to-the-fandom · 2 years

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In which Prince Renathal and the Maw Walker hook up for the first time after an unusual Ember Court. Rated M for sexual scenarios (but, you know, the classy kind). Read here on Ao3 for triggers and tags

Takes place before the imprisonment of Denathrius, prior to “The Harvester of Dominion”

The trading of rumours via note was a long-standing tradition in Venthyr courts. A whispered word could be overheard, but a note...

They were slipped from hand to hand and hidden up sleeves, subtly read while sipping from a glass, then passed on for the next guest to peruse. It was a practice as old as Revendreth itself, and one Prince Renathal detested. And this rumour - his eyes widened as he read the note's contents - this one left a particularly sour taste in his mouth.

Have you heard the latest about the Prince and the Maw Walker? It is said they're-"

Renathal dipped the scroll idly into the nearest candle flame, held it out, away from himself, watching as it burnt to ash. And then began seriously to brood.

Had the Maw Walker seen it? Of course she had, she had brought it to him, but had she read its contents first? Her demeanor as she slipped him the folded paper left no indication one way or the other, her face as expressionless as always. Renathal was getting better at reading the little tells in her smooth, lavender face - a blink, a tilt of the head, a quirk of the mouth - but it was still occasionally difficult. Venthyr faces were always expressive, if rarely sincere. Reading the Maw Walker was a challenge, and one he usually relished. But now...

Turning casually, as if contemplating the offerings of the terrace, Renathal searched for the Maw Walker's purple glow, something he found himself doing often during Ember Court sessions. There she was - refilling the Countess's tea cup at the furthest cliffside table, her face as generically pleasant as ever. No discomfort could be detected at this distance. He watched as she attended the table's guests: the Countess, her coterie of fashionable Venthyr socialites whose names escaped him, and 'Picky' Stefan, chatting away in a voice loud enough to carry across the terrace. "Ah yes, the fragrance reminds me of my many years in the Banewood! Have I told you-"

The Maw Walker had just straightened, turning as if to leave, when the Countess murmured something Renathal could not hear under Stefan's chatter. The two females debated between themselves for a few seconds before the Nightborne nodded politely, filled another cup, and took the seat at the table behind it.

Instantly, Renathal's hackles were raised. A scandalous rumor and the Countess present at the same court? He knew this Harvester of Desire too well to believe it a coincidence. If the Countess had not written the note herself, she had certainly encouraged one of her entourage to do so. And now she would try to trick the Maw Walker into giving the truth away.

Not that there was any truth to it. Which bothered Renathal almost as much as the existence of the salacious rumour itself.

He had been grappling with his growing feelings for the Maw Walker for several weeks, debating the various practicalities and possibilities of initiating a more... intimate relationship with her. Bedding the realm's champion did hold the potential to complicate his rebellion, but Renathal had decided he could overlook this. Partly because he really wanted to, and partly because he trusted the Maw Walker completely. She was practical and loyal - and therefore unlikely to abandon his cause if their hypothetical affair ended poorly - as well as exceptionally private when it came to her personal life.

Which was exactly why a rumour such as this might offend her, before he ever had a chance to make it a reality.

Renathal glanced again at the Maw Walker, searching for potential clues. She was listening to Stefan wax on about the tea, while the drink in her own hand remained untouched. She leaned against the high-backed chair, seeming, for the moment, entirely relaxed. Hardly the posture of someone incensed by slander, but then, the Maw Walker was generally unflappable.

Renathal sighed. There was only one way to find out what she knew and what she was thinking and that was to ask her directly. He glided over to the Countess's table at a carefully dignified pace.

"My friends, I do hope we are all enjoying ourselves?"

The Maw Walker glanced up at Renathal's approach - but it was only her familiar, focused look that indicated she was assessing his mood, determining whether anything was amiss. He made sure to comport himself entirely at ease.

"Oh, assuredly," replied Stefan, to whom the question was really the least addressed. "I always appreciate the opportunity to slow down and savour the moment. The last two courts have been far too full of chaos and mess for my taste."

"There is certainly truth to that," Renathal acknowledged. "But our Maw Walker proves once again she is capable of anything, including arranging a most relaxing soiree for a change."

"Oh, it is … quite relaxing," the Countess inserted languidly. "Possibly too relaxing. One might even say... dull." She dropped the word delicately into the air like a fallen parasol she fully expected someone else to pick up. And sure enough...

"Dull?" The Maw Walker perked up instantly, setting down her undrunk tea. She did take the discontent of Ember Court guests as something of a personal insult, thought Renathal fondly. "And what might be done to liven it to your taste, Countess?"

"Hmm... well, let me see..." The Countess tapped her chin with a finger, feigning thought. Renathal was not remotely fooled. "Well... Kassir could not stop talking about the dancing that went on the last time he attended the Ember Court. He said it was lively enough to rival any castle ball..."

"I remember that," chimed in Stefan. "Yes, quite fun, I'm sure. I've never been one for dancing myself but certainly entertaining to watch. I'm afraid the refreshment at that court was not quite-"

"I was told," the Countess cut in smoothly, "that our own Prince and the Maw Walker made a particularly striking pair dancing together."

The Countess turned her head minutely as she spoke to observe Renathal's reaction, but he had spent too many centuries with this harvester to be caught off-guard. His face was a mask of impassivity to rival the Maw Walker's.

"Ah, yes..." Renathal said slowly, as if dredging up this memory from some deep recess instead of replaying it behind his eyes every night....

The way the Maw Walker had leaned into him as they moved together, allowing him to lead her through the crowd of dancers, surrendering herself entirely to his grip on her hand and waist. The dress she wore to court revealed far too much flesh to be appropriate for Revendreth, but Renathal had appreciated the chance it gave him to stroke his fingers over the warm, bare skin of her lower back. And the way she shivered deliciously when he had, canting her body closer to his as if on instinct....

"Yes... I believe I remember the court you refer to," Renathal continued thoughtfully. "As I recall, we were all of us rather caught up in the delightful music. The Lost Chalice Band can have that effect on the soul."

"The Lost Chalice Band?" queried the Countess. "Why, they're here today, are they not? And yet they do not play! Your guests are forced to entertain themselves as best they can with tea and" - she cast a haughty glance at Stefan - "the dullest of conversations."

Stefan, for whom self-awareness was never a strong suit, missed the insult entirely. He set his own cup down as if anticipating a change of venue. "Why, I'm sure our Maw Walker can easily arrange for dancing to be added to the Court’s offerings. She is always so resourceful."

Renathal's eyes glowed briefly at the prospect, but he checked himself before the Countess could notice. Was there any harm in permitting it? It was obvious the Countess had orchestrated the conversation to ensure this exact outcome - subterfuge was always her special gift - but surely it would be more suspicious to refuse now a precedent had already been established?

Additionally, it would make a perfect excuse to speak to the Maw Walker privately without seeming too obvious; determine whether she had read the rumour and establish how she felt about the idea. And, the truth of the matter was, Renathal had been itching to dance with her again for weeks now. Holding her against him for those few minutes had been a pleasure the likes of which he had not encountered for over an age, and he wanted more. The thought of indulging his craving was too good to pass up.

"Of course, Countess, if it would make the Ember Court more enjoyable for you," Renathal said magnanimously. "Maw Walker, would you kindly inform the Lost Chalice Band their services are required? I shall make the announcement to our guests."

Renathal allowed his eyes to meet the Maw Walker’s, forgoing a wink lest the Countess should catch it, but allowing a spark of humour to shine in their amber depths, as if the whole thing was a joke between the two of them. The Maw Walker, on the other hand, looked strangely … nervous? Renathal could not be certain. It was gone in an instant, replaced by her carefully bland smile.

“I don't think that will be possible, your Highness, Countess.” She nodded at them each in turn. “I’m afraid Chiu has misplaced her lute, which is the reason the band has not played today."

Renathal raised his eyebrows before he could stop himself, but the Countess - busy watching the Maw Walker - did not see.

"Oh, she's always losing it,” commented Stefan. “One would think musicians would take better care of their instruments.”

“One would think,” the Maw Walker agreed.

"But surely they can manage without one player?" said a Venthyr socialite seated beside the Countess. "How essential can the lute be?"

"Apparently extremely," answered the Maw Walker, a note of finality in her voice. "And a band of only two could not hope to create the proper ambiance for a dance. Perhaps next time." She rose smoothly from her seat before anyone could protest further. "This has been a most invigorating rest, but I'm neglecting the court's other guests. Please excuse me."

She gave a small respectful nod to the table at large, then adjourned as quickly as propriety allowed in the direction of the ramparts, sparing Renathal not the least half-glance on her way.

“How unfortunate,” declared the Countess in affected dismay. “I am most disappointed.” A statement very much at odds with the glitter of triumph in her beady eyes.

"Your disappointment is a crushing blow, Countess," said Renathal idly, frowning after the Maw Walker.

The Countess, much more conscious of subtle undercurrents than Stefan and highly affronted by the insincerity in Renathal's tone, rose from her own chair haughtily and flounced away, followed dutifully by her entourage. Renathal knew he ought to have been more careful with his reply, ought to care more about garnering the Countess's favor; after all, her medallion was still outstanding. But he was too preoccupied with more personal concerns.

The Maw Walker had never denied a guest's request.

Renathal had seen her go to great lengths to please even the least important Ember Court attendee. He knew for a fact she and Temel had taken extra care with this particular court's preparation, conscious as she was of the Countess's potential to help or hinder the rebellion's efforts. And while it was certainly true the Lost Chalice Band misplaced their instruments with quite unwonted frequency, the Maw Walker had always managed to locate them before. Renathal did not believe for a second she had simply resigned herself to failure this time, not with such a high-profile guest on the line. So why had she chosen not to? He could think of only one reason.

That bloody rumour....

The Maw Walker's distinct lavender outline could no longer be seen from the refreshment tables, so Renathal began a slow glide around Sinfall's center, stealing occasional side-long glances up at the ramparts. Clearly, she had read the note. It was the only explanation for her uncharacteristic refusal to accommodate a guest, and the obvious distance she was keeping from Renathal himself. Usually, they met toward the end of a court to compare notes on guest satisfaction and determine whether or not to let a session run long. Instead, the Maw Walker had purposefully removed herself from him as far as the space of the courtyard would allow. But ... was it to keep guests from reading some truth into the rumour, or because she was now uncomfortable in his presence?

Gliding up the steps to the tribute stage, Renathal surveyed the empty dance floor gloomily, remembering how very different he had felt in that exact place weeks ago...

…at the end of their dance, when he met the Maw Walker's eyes and held them, watched their blue-white depths go oddly dark. She had released his hand almost reluctantly, dropping her gaze to hide a violet flush, and anima surged to his core as he smelled on her the distinct scent of desire...

In that moment, Renathal had been so certain the Maw Walker was as drawn to him as he was to her. But... perhaps he had misinterpreted. She was so damnably hard to read.

He cast a final glance around the courtyard, distinctly unhappy with the way this evening had played out. Being denied something he wanted was still a relatively new experience for the Dark Prince of Revendreth, and while he was sometimes able to appreciate the freshness of not getting his way, other times it was simply irritating. This was certainly the latter. In a fit of pique, he decided he would end the court early without consulting the Maw Walker, since she had not seen fit to reappear. He adjusted the drape of his coat, cleared his throat and opened his mouth, just as a scream echoed chillingly from somewhere behind him.

It was not the shriek of delighted fright that occasionally rang through court when nobles got too close to attacking manifestations or when sheltered socialites were surprised by the sudden appearance of Ardenweald fauna. This was a scream of genuine terror, and Renathal knew, with a sinking in his stomach, what he would see even before he whirled around.

The sky above the ramparts was moving darkly toward Sinfall, as though storm clouds raced in their direction. But Revendreth did not have those sort of clouds, and the shadowy mass held the glint of red eyes and sharp steel. The Stone Legion.

Renathal groaned; fortunately, the sound could not be heard over the courtyard's sudden swell of noise and chaos. Honestly, what else could go wrong today? he thought dismally, as he summoned his own magic and hastened toward the Bridge of Banishment. Rumours and the Countess and now the Stone Legion ... this was turning into the worst Ember Court yet.

Renathal's mood had not improved much even hours later; standing at the table that served as his catchall desk and, currently, valet stand, cleaning the dust, debris, and drops of anima from his armor. He could have ordered a dredger to do it - there were enough of them wandering around Sinfall now - but he was restless, and needed something to do apart from pacing the room pointlessly, possibly kicking the scant furniture. It was a distinct and embarrassing possibility. Just at present, Renathal felt very much like a petulant child beaten at a game.

He supposed it had ended as well as any assault could. The Venthyr volunteer defenders, in a surprising twist, held their positions well, driving back the Stone Legion before they had a chance to claim a foothold. Personally, Renathal suspected the Legion's orders had been to sow chaos rather than carnage, but he kept his thoughts to himself. Let the defenders congratulate each other on a job well done, he had decided as he adjourned to his quarters. It would be wrong to force everyone else to feel as disgruntled as he did.

As he finished polishing the breastplate, Renathal paused, listening intently. After a moment's attention to the unbroken silence outside his room, he sighed and began brushing down one of his greaves, salvaging what anima he could from it and returning the metal to its properly shining green and gold.

And he had thought the Ember Court was doing so well... thought he was doing well. So many new contacts and support from other realms, and more Venthyr nobles each week. Renathal had been proud - perhaps too proud - of having the Maw Walker's power and unwavering loyalty at his disposal, not to speak of her affection. And now...

Denathrius had stripped him of his Court, and it appeared that stupid bloody rumour may have cost him his Maw Walker.

Renathal paused again, straining his ears to catch the sound of quiet footsteps making their way down the stone passage toward his rooms. But there was nothing. Not even an echo of the action he knew must be happening in Sinfall's main hall above. Whether the walls had been enchanted to prevent sound carrying, or the stone was just that thick, the noise of the other floors did not seem to reach to this deep corner of the structure, which was one of the reasons Renathal had requisitioned it. Usually he appreciated the privacy, but now it made him feel alone and cut off from the rebellion's metaphorical life. And it also meant he could not hear if the Maw Walker had come down from the courtyard.

It had been several hours since the Stone Legion's forces had been routed from Sinfall, but the Maw Walker had not yet appeared at his door to report, as she did almost every evening. Nor had he seen her during the battle. Renathal was beginning to seriously worry she was avoiding him, a thought which bothered him even more than his dashed hopes of a second dance, or the tantalising thought of more. All his fantasies of future possibilities aside, the Maw Walker was a friend. A close friend. Dearer to him than many of the Venthyr he had known for millennia, and the closest thing to a confidante he currently had. Everything seemed less terrible, more hopeful, in the light of her soft, lilac glow.

In a sudden indulgence of temper, Renathal slammed the greave he was polishing down on the table. It was too well made to be damaged by the wood, but it did send a shockwave of momentum up his arm hard enough to make him wince.

This was exactly why he so detested rumours, thought Renathal, rubbing angrily at his elbow. They manufactured momentary excitement out of someone else's far longer lasting distress. And if his comfortable relationship with the Maw Walker had been permanently altered by that damned note, he would find whoever had written it, Countess or otherwise, and have them condemned to a crypt for an epoch.

"Really, it wasn't all that terrible."

The Maw Walker's voice behind him made Renathal jump. He had been so busy brooding he had not heard her arrive. Dropping his still-sore elbow, he straightened, trying his best to swallow his agitation before facing her, despite the display of temper she had already witnessed. It was not difficult. Just hearing her voice had already eased some of the tension in Renathal's neck and shoulders.

She was not avoiding him after all.

He made sure there was nothing on his face to reveal any of his former concern or his current overwhelming relief before he turned to her... and started.

The Maw Walker was an absolute mess.

Renathal had seen her battle weary before, but always in the heavy robes that functioned as her armor. Today, she had been forced to fight in the rather skimpy dress she kept insisting to a tearful Lady Rovinette, the Ember Court clothier, was considered a ball gown in her home of Suramar. Reduced to even less material than usual, the tattered ruins of the dress revealed nearly the entire length of both long, smooth legs; much of the midriff was missing, as well. The pale, swirling tattoos shining faintly against the skin of her thighs were brand new information for Renathal, and he had a sudden, powerful urge to trace his fingers over them.

"Everyone is accounted for," the Maw Walker continued, oblivious to - or ignoring - Renathal's open stare. "No losses. Only six injuries of note, even those mostly minor. And none of them guests, so no harm done really."

She crossed the threshold into the spartan chamber that served the fallen Prince as office, study, and drawing room, kicking the door half closed behind her with a completely bare foot - she appeared to have lost her shoes somewhere in the fight - and limping to the dark velvet chaise she usually sat on when reporting to Renathal of an evening. Though, she did not usually bleed on it.

Renathal cleared his throat.

"And do you count yourself among that number?" he asked, now inspecting her leg more in concern than appreciation.

The blood was dripping from a shallow cut down the side of one completely bare thigh. It did not look particularly serious, but the limp had not escaped Renathal's notice.

The Maw Walker's face twisted in annoyance.

"No." She glanced down at the cut with a grimace and tried vainly to hide it from sight with a torn bit of skirt. "That's nothing, hardly worth healing. The worst damage to me was from those ridiculous shoes. Trust the Stone Legion to attack the one time I let Lady Rovinette talk me into wearing heels. I tripped over my own bloody feet and twisted my ankle."

For some reason, Renathal found her ire over something so trivial supremely funny. He positioned a faux-thoughtful hand across his mouth to hide the hint of a smile. The Maw Walker did not seem particularly upset with him, but he preferred not to press his luck by laughing at her when she was so clearly annoyed.

"Anyway," she continued, pulling stray pins from the remains of her elegantly arranged hair. "The courtyard is a bit of a disaster, and the decorations will all have to be replaced. But I've told Boot it's top priority and I'll gather the supplies myself. So, we should have it all fixed up by next week."

"Next week?" repeated Renathal absently, watching her tuck hair pins into some secret place in what had once been the bodice of her gown and was now strategically arranged shreds of gauzy, purple fabric.

Noting his distraction, the Maw Walker stopped and turned her full attention on Renathal for the first time since entering the room.

"For the next Ember Court," she explained.

Renathal blinked in surprise.

"My dear friend," he said slowly, "I fear we will have to discontinue that particular venture."

A few seconds of confusion ticked past as each looked at the other as though they were the one not making sense. It was the Maw Walker who finally broke the silence.

"Why?"

"You have to ask?" Renathal lifted his hands, allowing his distress to manifest as elaborate gesticulation. "Who in the realm will wish to attend after today's events? Now the nobility know Sinfall cannot shield them from Denathrius' forces most will certainly decline their invitations. And as the Ember Court exists largely to gain their support, it is ... hardly worth the effort." He dropped his arms, abruptly drained. "No... Denathrius set out to prove to the people of Revendreth that we ... that I ... could not protect them. And ... prove it he did."

Renathal lowered himself wearily onto the chaise beside the Maw Walker and felt the now-familiar tendrils of despair snake around his chest. It was a feeling he had never known before the Maw, and it was proving far harder to escape. It lingered at the back of his mind, waiting for setbacks such as today's to weaken his steadfast resolve, allowing an opening for despair to creep in and taint all his other thoughts. He rubbed his temples fiercely as if the action might push the feeling back to his subconscious.

"I disagree," said the Maw Walker. The simple pronouncement made Renathal look up. "You did prove yourself to Revendreth. You proved Sinfall can withstand Denathrius' forces. You drove them back, you protected your guests. No one was lost, or even seriously injured. What more could they ask of you?"

Renathal gave her a grateful smile that did not meet his eyes and shook his head.

"I appreciate the show of support, but I am afraid-"

"Renathal."

Her use of his name sans title made him lift a startled eyebrow. Renathal had long ago granted her the privilege, but she rarely exercised it.

"This was always going to happen eventually," the Maw Walker continued. "We can't hold court under Denathrius' nose and expect him to never strike out. We knew he would test his strength against us at some point. But...that was part of the reason for the Ember Court, wasn't it? To show people the strength of Sinfall, of the rebellion as a whole, and of you as its leader."

The Maw Walker reached out to grasp Renathal's hand where it lay limp against the chaise. Her tender touch ... the soft earnestness in her voice ... they were enough for Renathal's mouth to hang open slightly as she plead her case.

"The Ember Court has always been about displays of power and confidence, as well as hospitality. Tonight merely proved we can stand behind those claims. And with no casualties, the stories that spread about tonight will be about Sinfall's victory. Trust me, this time tomorrow the whole realm will be talking about how exciting a court it was. In three days, socialites will be bragging about being there, and everyone else will wish they were. You'll have Venthyr queuing up to attend the next court. To cancel it would be a serious mistake."

Renathal wondered if hope, like intellect, was a spell the Maw Walker could cast with her touch. Already, he could feel the despair evaporating, unable to exist in the same place as the heat she sent rushing through him as she gently squeezed his hand before releasing it.

"Besides," she added with a wry smile, "if you cancel the Ember Court, you will have to break the news to Temel because I certainly won't."

Renathal's small snort of laughter was weak but genuine.

"That would be a fate nearly as terrifying as the Stone Legion," he joked darkly, and she giggled, a brighter sound than Renathal's and one which raised his spirits considerably.

Making the Maw Walker laugh was - he had discovered - something of a rare talent, and Renathal relished his ability to conjure the sound more often than most. He sat up straighter, angling himself to face her more directly.

It was not unusual for them to sit here together. Many evenings, when their talk had drifted away from business, had found them both settled comfortably on this overlarge piece of furniture, probably intended for Denathrius. Although, noted Renathal as the Maw Walker shifted, she was usually much more fully clothed. He was conscious of how very easy it would be to brush against her smooth, bare leg and have it seem an accident.

Something of his dark thoughts must have shown in his face because the Maw Walker cocked her head at him and said, “What is it?”

Renathal wondered if he dared broach the subject still nagging at him after such a thoroughly inauspicious day. Clearly the Maw Walker was not uncomfortable around him, whatever her actions during court might have indicated. Perhaps the status quo was best simply maintained. But ... that urgent longing to have his hands on her again, to feel her lean into him, trust him to lead her body through exquisite movement... it echoed through him like a song he could not forget.

“Oh... it is nothing. Merely…” Renathal drummed his fingers against the arm of the chaise. “It was a shame that Chiu's lute could not be found today. Quite unusual for you to be unable to locate it..."

The Maw Walker blinked at him.

"Well, obviously, I could have found it if I looked. I thought it best for the band not to play today while a certain rumour was making its way around court."

Renathal met her eyes swiftly.

"So ... you did read the note?"

"Of course," she confirmed. "I brought it to you, didn't I? I know your feelings on rumours, and seeing how this particular rumour might catch fire the more we were seen together, I thought it prudent not to give it any additional fuel."

It was such a practical, obvious explanation, Renathal silently berated himself for ever considering any other possibility. The Maw Walker was always so attentive to everyone's wants, especially his own. She had simply made the assumption he would take greater satisfaction in a rumour being extinguished than in dancing with her; which was a fair one, if incorrect.

"I see," he said carefully. Glad as he was to have the mystery settled, it still bothered Renathal inordinately to have the moment he wanted stolen from him.

The Maw Walker's eyes narrowed.

"Did I make a wrong choice?" she asked. "You seem..." - she cocked her head again- "...unhappy."

The way her eyes picked apart each piece of his face in turn, it was as though she were translating Renathal from another language, and it occurred to him abruptly that they were two different species, however similar their basic body structure may be. Not that such a thing bothered him. Personally, he found the Maw Walker all the more attractive for how unlike him she was. But she was not obligated to feel the same.

"No, no." Renathal shook his head. "I am sure you acted for the best." He swallowed. It was a gamble, but… "Only ... I was rather looking forward to another dance. And to be robbed of something so pleasurable on account of a rumour ... I confess, I was disappointed."

Silence met this admission. A silence of a few seconds, but they were impossibly long to Renathal who could not bring himself to lift his gaze until-

"So was I."

-her simple words ignited a hope like a candle flame in his chest. He met the Maw Walker's eyes, hers intent but unfocused, as though contemplating something. Before Renathal could think of the proper response, she stood up.

"Come." The Maw Walker held out her hand, lips quirked in amusement. "I don’t want to be accused of robbing the Prince of Revendreth of any sort of pleasure."

It took Renathal a moment to understand. By the time he had, the Maw Walker was already grasping his wrist, pulling him to his feet. Anima pounded a rhythm in the most sensitive parts of him as she placed his hand on her waist and hers on his shoulder, resting more weight on him than last time - and Renathal remembered her ankle.

"What about your injury?" he asked.

"What injury?"

Renathal had half a foot of height on the Maw Walker, more without shoes, and she had to lift her chin to look him in the face. Her eyes sparkled with barely restrained mirth when she winked. Her high humour sparked life in his own, so sadly subdued all day.

“And... how shall we dance with no music?”

“Hmm ... that is a quandary...”

The Maw Walker assumed an expression of exaggerated thought, then took a deep breath through her nose and began to hum loudly. Renathal could not help laughing, and she smiled around her slightly off-key song. He waited a moment to catch the beat before tightening his grip and beginning to move her across the stone floor in slow, easy steps.

It could only generously be called dancing. Between the Maw Walker's limp and her attempt at musical accompaniment, it fell to Renathal to support nearly all her weight. Fortunately, they could only go a few strides in any direction without hitting an obstacle - the chaise, the table, the scattered bits of rubble - so there was no room to attempt any more complicated maneuvres. Twice the Maw Walker tripped on a torn length of her own skirt, interrupting her humming with peals of laughter, and everywhere she limped, she trailed drops of red blood from the still-dripping cut on her leg. Renathal was sure they looked ridiculous and was equally sure neither of them cared.

"What is that song?" he asked, when her humming drifted away.

"Oh, just ... something from home. Suramar," she clarified as though Renathal might have forgotten. "It was popular when I was very young, played often at courts. I quite liked it. It always made me wish I had someone to dance with."

Her voice grew thoughtful, and Renathal held his breath. Whenever conversations turned to her homeland or her past, the Maw Walker tended to find an excuse to leave. This time, she merely sighed softly and settled herself more firmly against Renathal's chest. He was suddenly very aware he was dressed in only his shirt sleeves and trousers.

"Surely, you did not lack for partners?"

The Maw Walker huffed a little soundless laugh.

"I was always rather selective about my partners."

She tilted her chin to meet his eyes again. Hers were now several shades darker, and the surge of anima at the base of Renathal's spine made him certain he was not imagining the double meaning in her words. His lips parted as he searched for the best way to ask the question burning a hole inside him, but he only managed to say her name before -

"Maw Walker? Are you down here?"

Both of them jumped. The voice echoed from the hall outside Renathal's rooms, and now footsteps were audible, rapidly approaching the door. It was Sinfall's ceaseless refrain. Someone else with a task for the Maw Walker, calling for her aid, seeking her out no matter the time. And she always answered.

The footsteps stopped outside the cracked door, and Renathal grimaced, the idea of losing this moment almost too much to bear. He groaned quietly, relinquishing his grip on the Maw Walker's waist, and was shocked when she tightened hers in return. She glanced up at Renathal's visible confusion, mouthed Shhh, then waved her free hand in an arc in front of them. Instantly, the same blue mist she had conjured in the Maw sprang into existence, shielding them from sight.

The sparkling, opaque light made it difficult to see the door as it slowly creaked open, or clearly identify the Venthyr who stood on the threshold. But it was obvious, as the intruder turned from side to side to inspect the room’s corners, that whoever it was could not see the Prince and the Maw Walker standing practically on top of each other in the center of the room.

After a few moments, and another call of her name, the unknown Venthyr retreated back into the hall, shutting the door behind them with a muted snap. The Maw Walker maintained her spell for several more heartbeats - that Renathal could feel with the way her chest was flattened against his - before allowing the blue light to dissipate.

"Shirking your responsibilities?" he asked, but there wasn't the slightest reproof in it. For the Maw Walker to choose him over others, over her work throughout the realm, made him giddy.

"Not at all," the Maw Walker replied, replacing Renathal's hand on her waist and peeling herself from his body enough to comfortably move her feet without stepping on his. “I just think I'm best suited here at the moment."

She squeezed his hand, reminding him to move, and Renathal resumed their makeshift dance, now without any semblance of music and barely any discernable rhythm. It was no more than an excuse to stay touching one another, and Renathal was sure she knew it as well as he.

"Oh?" he asked, his voice pitched deeper.

"You need this." When she caught sight of Renathal's raised eyebrow, the Maw Walker continued, "You carry the weight of an entire world on your shoulders. You need to shrug it off sometimes. You deserve a moment to just ... enjoy something. And if this is what you want, and I can give it to you, then you shall have it."

The Maw Walker's voice was forthright, her tone business-like and unemotional, but there was an invitation there, Renathal was certain. It was in the rapid beat of her heart as it pulsed against him, and the way she shivered when he trailed the hand supporting her back slowly down her spine. He could feel his growing need for her, wondered if she could feel it too with how little clothing separated them.

"And what of you?" His voice was a low rumble, and the Maw Walker lowered her head to try and hide her violet flush, forcing Renathal to speak against her dark hair. "You hold the fate of the entire Shadowlands. All of reality relies on you. Surely, you deserve to enjoy yourself as well."

The Maw Walker's hmm communicated disagreement. Renathal was unsure what she meant by it but that was a mystery for another time. At the moment, all that mattered was that she was wrong.

"You do."

He pronounced the words like an edict, and they held a distant echo of the power of dominion, his for so many eons. Not even the Maw Walker could broker an argument. Renathal ended their stilted perambulation and removed one of his arms from around her. He tilted her chin up with two long, careful fingers, forcing the Maw Walker to meet his gaze as he uttered her name.

"What would you most enjoy?"

"Honestly ..." She closed her eyes as she admitted, "Being here ... with you. This is the most I've enjoyed myself in ... in a very long time."

The Maw Walker exhaled deeply as if the confession were a weight from which she had been freed. And Renathal could sense it distinctly on her again: the heady perfume of desire. He would know it anywhere, but from her it was flavoured differently. Whether because of her race or her arcane magic or the fact that it was filtered through her mortal body, he was not sure - but he knew he wanted to drown in it. He leant down until his face was close enough to hers to feel her warm breath.

"I also enjoy your company. Immensely. I should … like to enjoy it more."

Renathal spoke as plainly as he could, mirroring the Maw Walker's forthright approach to truth he so admired. It made her smile.

"I would be amenable to that," she replied.

Her eyes flicked to his lips. And she was still smiling when Renathal kissed her for the first time.

It occurred to him again after their lips met - tentatively, exploring - that the Maw Walker was not Venthyr. Her lips were soft, her mouth as warm as the rest of her, her taste heady and unfamiliar. Renathal wondered what he felt like to her. He would be so much colder and sharper, he knew. But this wary train of thought evaporated as the Maw Walker's kiss grew more eager. Her hands crept delicately up his chest, skimming his face, threading their way through his long hair, and he allowed himself to sink into her.

Renathal was a master of control, but this was a temptation the likes of which he had never faced. The Maw Walker's warmth suffused him, starting at his mouth and leaving trails of thrilling energy everywhere she touched. He could not stop his hands clutching at her waist, canting her hips closer to him as she stood on tiptoe, trying instinctively to feel her heat against every part of him.

And if he thought he would be content with a dance, a kiss, Renathal had gravely underestimated the depth of his own desire. He needed all of her. Everything.

"Would it be considered ... bad manners if I asked you to stay?" he asked, voice ragged, when she broke for air.

"At this point," said the Maw Walker breathlessly, "I think it would be worse manners not to."

She tried to smile at her own witticism but it came out hungry, and Renathal could only growl his approval.

It was hardly the graceful seduction Renathal had been imagining. There was a rough scramble to remove clothes; her hands tugging at his shirt, his claws ripping off the remains of her dress. Every movement was full of an open desperation that would usually mortify him. Sex was as much an art form as anything else. And while he may not have the illustrious reputation of others in Revendreth, he had never allowed himself to be anything less than perfect in his various conquests.

But Renathal could not remember his body ever feeling so on fire. Was this how it was for mortals? Primal and necessary? The sensations were all-consuming at the cost of his focus. But if the Maw Walker was disappointed at the relative inelegance of his movements, she hid it extremely well.

Any further fears she might be uncomfortable with how different Renathal was from her own kind - the cold of his skin, the points of his teeth, the sharp edges of his nails as he dragged them down her naked legs wrapped around his hips - were soothed by her exquisite cries. He was shocked at the variety of sounds he could draw from the normally recalcitrant Maw Walker as he pinned her to the chaise and explored her body.

The nuance of expression ... the generosity of volume ...

Renathal had expected to have to work to discover what she liked. Every other aspect of her was always a challenge, and one he enjoyed. But here, underneath him, the Maw Walker abandoned all fight. She surrendered herself to him completely, giving his hands and mouth free reign of her body. It was so exhilarating, Renathal could not bring himself to hold back for more time, could not resist the way she opened her legs and offered herself to him. He could only give himself to her with equal enthusiasm.

Thought intruded just once when a sharp cry as he entered her made Renathal worry she might be hurt. He shook back his long white hair to inspect the Maw Walker's face with concern, but there was no indication of pain. Just open, panting lips and eyes, wide and desperate.

"Don't stop Renathal please," she moaned all in one breath, pronouncing his name like a prayer.

It made Renathal's head swim, his eyes cloud over in anima-fueled lust, but he mustered enough self-control to pause for a few seconds. The Maw Walker arched her back, crying out in exquisite anguish at the lack of friction, but this was essential.

Renathal leaned down to speak his words against her lips like a kiss: "Do not let me hurt you." And he could taste the smile around her own laboured breathing as she whispered back, "I'm not ... so delicate." Her legs locked around his hips as her body pleaded with his for more, and Renathal vigorously granted her request.

It had been centuries. Or more. Renathal could not recall precisely when he had last done this, and he knew however long ago it was it had never been quite like this. Which must be why he could not control his frantic rhythm ... why he could not contain himself any longer when she suddenly sobbed his name against his ear ... why he felt so entirely sated and pleased with all of reality when he finally sat back against the chaise, letting the dregs of swirling anima settle in his limbs. And why he felt almost immediately ready for her again as he watched her naked form roll off the chaise beside him and bend to pick up the remains of her gown.

Some of Renathal's general good feeling ebbed when he realised the Maw Walker was dressing - or rather, wrapping the shredded fabric strategically around herself to meet the bare minimum for modesty. He sat up straighter and cleared his throat, immoderately pleased when she stopped her work to let her eyes wander his own bare body distractedly. He stretched out an arm to drag her back to him and she complied, sitting astride his lap, moaning softly when she felt how much he still wanted her.

"Stay," Renathal ordered gently, tracing her pale, swirling tattoos. The Maw Walker shuddered at his touch.

"Surely tempting others is a sin."

Renathal chuckled, low and gravelly, and buried his face against her throat, speaking into her lavender skin.

"Not if it is an offer made sincerely."

The Maw Walker ran her fingers tenderly through his hair, and Renathal groaned softly. It had been an impossibly long time since he had known any touch so sweet, so careful.

And there were reasons for that, he reminded himself. But he refused to dwell on them now. She was not Venthyr, she was not of Denathrius. She was something entirely outside the Sire's control. And she would never betray him.

"I can't stay, and neither can you," said the Maw Walker, breaking through Renathal's thoughts. “People will be looking for us in earnest by now, and it wouldn't be wise to worry them." Renathal reluctantly lifted his head, and she smoothed the hair of his goatee back into place with a smirk. "Unless you'd like the next rumour to be about how the Maw Walker absconded with the Prince."

"Mmm..." Renathal hummed unhappy agreement, tracing her teasing smile with his thumb. "Practical as ever."

With a small kiss to his palm, the Maw Walker pulled his hand away, withdrew from his lap, and drew him to his feet. She bent to fetch his clothes for him where they had fallen, smoothing them out with a wink, and Renathal knew she was trying to force him to smile, knew she did not want to leave him melancholy once again. He tried his best to look as relaxed as she did.

Renathal knew she was entirely correct; they had been unaccounted for far too long. It was actually shocking no one had interrupted them since he had neglected to do anything so sensible as locking or barring the door. Although, he supposed, as he fastened his shirt, would either of them have noticed if someone had entered? He eyed the door suspiciously, still working at his buttons. It would not be a good idea for their tryst to become common knowledge in Sinfall - especially after all the Maw Walker's work to quash the rumour - but at the moment Renathal was finding it hard to care. All he was concerned with now was what came next.

The Maw Walker clicked her tongue in mock dismay as he missed the same button for a third time. She came to his rescue as always, moving his hands out of the way and fastening his shirt with quick efficiency. Something about the domesticity of it touched Renathal deeply, in places that had been abandoned for many ages. He fought the sudden instinct to draw her to him again, to refuse to let her leave...

He swallowed hard, and tried to mirror the Maw Walker's amusement instead.

"Thank you." Renathal gave his words an ironic edge and an accompanying mock-formal nod.

"Thank you," she replied with a wink. "This was exceptionally pleasant. We should do it again sometime."

His eyes widened slightly, and the knot forming inside him unraveled. Again. That was exactly what he needed to hear. For whatever reason, the Maw Walker had awakened something in him he had either forgotten or never fully known. An all-consuming hunger, a desperate need. And this moment, as blissful as it was, had barely whetted his appetite. Renathal had not had his fill of the Maw Walker, not by half.

The Maw Walker gave him a chaste kiss on his sharp cheek by way of goodbye, but Renathal snaked an arm around her waist to stop her. With the promise of more to come, he could feel his good mood and dark humour returning.

"Consider this part of your regular duties, then," he said with an arch smile, adopting her business-like tone of address. "After all, we are both very important, very put-upon leaders." He punctuated his words with a final kiss of his own, not quite so chaste, drawing out the time before he had to release her lips. "I believe our mutual satisfaction will prove quite important to the war effort."

The joy in the Maw Walker's full-bodied laughter continued to ring through Renathal like the echo of a bell for a long time after she finally left.

Read Part 4: Interrupted| Visit the Masterpost

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xiaonesis · 3 years

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Ghosts We See: Fireside Tales // A Legend of Scritches [Inarizaki House Vol.]

A/N: This is a commission by @decemberbellz who asked for a part 2 to the Atsumu headpat fic from Chapter 25 of Ghosts We See. It isn’t necessary to read GWS before this but recommended for larger context.

Pairing: Inarizaki VBC x Fem!Reader

Tags: Fluff. Pure fluff. Humor. Crack-ish. Maybe angst if you squint and combined braincells. Fox-folk!Inarizaki. GWS-Verse.

Summary

In which you discover the fox-folk's one true weakness.

Scritches.

There is a legend in the equally legendary hidden fox-village of Inarizaki House.

It speaks about an implicit act, a manoeuvre, an exploit, a trial of tenacity and discipline, a happening so rare - on account of it’s scarcity and the fact that those who experienced it are very much averse to speaking about it - that many in the village believe it is nothing more than that: a legend.

A tale of myth and fantasy.

Documentation of this circumstance - this phenomena - is as nonexistent as the fable itself. Current generations of fox-folk children are only afforded the opportunity to learn of it by way of mouth, the tales passed on to them by the village elders. And one day, they to their own children.

By way of oral history, the stories are preserved through generations and the ebbings of time.

There are only a handful of fox-folks that encountered this unspoken of phenomena, so scandalous to their race that hackles raise, tails flounce, and ears curl when one even attempts to broach the subject with their survivors. In several cases, they even disappeared in swift wisps of the illusion magic characteristic to the elusive fox-folks.

It is from the unwilling lips of these survivors - and the observations of them by third parties - that gave rise to the few historic accounts that exist today, veracity be damned.

What exactly is this unmentionable thing spoken of in the legend, you ask?

Well–

A Legend of Scritches [Inarizaki House Vol.]

Our story begins with one Ginjima Hitoshi.

At the time, of the retainers who have the Alpha-Leader Kita Shinsuke’s ear, Ginjima was neither the youngest nor the oldest of the group. He is, however, the oldest of the younger demographic- of which there are four of them in a total of seven - making up the supporting pillars that ensures Lord Kita is able to sleep with some semblance of peace at night.

That said, Ginjima possesses a level-head for his rank and age, especially when compared to a certain pair of destructive twins and the village loner.

Despite that though, the light-haired male has never shed the more...youthful - bashful, really - side of him, unlike his peers.

This innocent quality of his is really what caused something that should have been a mundane affair to blow entirely out of proportions.

It had been a normal day in the village as far as the fox-folks were concerned.

The sun rose when the morning mists fell, farmers rising in turn to tend to their fields. Fishers dove for their daily catches along the river and young foxlings went to their communal classes at the village center. Those who weren’t working in the village went beyond the illusory border that protected the village, patrolling the surrounding swamps and forests.

A normal day in the Inarizaki House - except for the human addition.

Since the battle that nearly wiped out their village, any contact with humans that did not involve metal and blood have been non-existent until this particular one arrived. The presence of the human girl in the secluded village rippled, disturbing the calm and disquieted peace that barricaded the fox-folks from the rest of Hyquile.

By the time this story occurs, the fox-folks have more or less adjusted to the occasional presence of a human among them. Adjusted, but not fully comfortable. Learning, but not yet fully understood.

The Alpha-Leader has consistently and gradually pushed for his people to re-acclimatize to the world. It is a slow process, one that cannot be forced, that included the rebuilding of Inarizaki House as a whole.

A building that had the fox village murmuring in excitement is the reconstruction of the local library, it’s predecessor burned in the flames of hate.

Kita had been inspired to have a respectable library for the fox-folks since laying eyes on the Blue Leaf National Library of Seijoh. Although it isn’t going to have even a quarter of the grandeur of the Aoban architectural marvel, the fox-folks are thrilled at the thought of having an actual library once more. Their village had nothing more than a bookshelf before this undertaking.

When she heard of this, the human girl had been as excited as the youngest of their foxlings and quickly offered her help. She was a hardworking one, more than happy to assist in any way she can.

There is another story that told of her endeavours to fight the Rot, a great calamity that ravaged Hyquile then.

But that is a tale for another day.

In a wave of support and excitement for this development, the fox-folks had unearthed and gathered together what books, scrolls, and parchment they could find in their dilapidated backrooms and attics, abandoned structures and even the ruins of what were once homes.

It was hard labour - emotionally taxing for everyone, going through the debris of their past. Yet, there was a quiet determination in all of the fox-folks as they struggled to face the past for the future.

Now, Ginjima generally does not mind the more dull tasks that come his way - fixing leaking attics, lugging rice sacks to the winter food stores, tiling roofs etcetera.

Daily patrol that involved covering land that stretched for miles was quite taxing on the body, and mundane work allowed him to take a break without actually resting on his laurels.

Today’s task came from a Lady Yamane, who is overseeing the reconstruction of the Inarizaki local library. She required assistance in unpacking piles of dusty books brought in by the villagers, on top of cleaning ashes off bookshelves that had not seen use for years

Ginjima groans as he stretches his arms out, hearing and feeling the joints of his shoulders pop after an hour of hunching over stacks of scrolls, sorting through them by category. He looks behind to where you are standing on a low chair, reaching up to wipe off the top of another bookshelf that Aran dropped off prior.

Watching the way your toes teeter in strain to reach your hands to the very top, his nose scrunches anxiously.

“Are ya’ sure we shouldn’t switch tasks…?” Ginjima asks in a soft voice as he approaches you. He nearly has a heart attack when you jolt in surprise at his sudden voice, stool dancing dangerously beneath your feet, and his hands raise instinctively to catch you. But you saved yourself, hands latching onto the shelf in reflex.

Ginjima breathes a large sigh of relief, shoulders slumping forward. Last thing he wants is to be known as the fox-folk who unwittingly cracked your skull. Kita will never forgive him.

“Oh geez- Ginjima! You scared me.”

“S-Sorry…” he mutters, kicking at a nearby stack of tied-books.

He knows you’re harmless, having more or less shed the prejudice against humans as a whole that he used to bear. After all that you did - are doing - for them, it wouldn’t be very honourable to discriminate against you for what humans that had nothing to do with you executed.

Doesn’t make him any less tense around you, at times. It creeps up on him unconsciously, slithering up his arms, hanging onto his neck and shoulders.

Ginjima cranes his neck, another audible crack resounding in the area and he lets out another satisfied groan under his breath.

You pause in your cleaning to look down at him. “Yikes, some stretches might do you good.”

Stretches.

Ginjima has seen your stretching sessions with his Alpha-Leader before. He has to admit it looks...fun, sometimes. Basking in the orange rays of a falling sun, whispering fields of green and gold the audience to your performance.

He shakes his head. “It’s fine. There’s still a lot left to go through.”

Ginjima gestures at the dirty cloth in your hand with his chin. “Switch with me. If ya’ split yer head, it’s my neck on the line.”

“I’ll be fine. I’m not a child. Trust me, it’s better this way,” you protest with a roll of your eyes. You wave carelessly at the books and paper behind your figures. “I wouldn’t be able to sort any of those. I’m hardly familiar with the differences between ‘Guide to Soul Magic’ and ‘Introduction to Soul Trapping: The Greatest Trap Of Our Lives.’”

“Alright. Just…don’t fall, okay?” He mutters reluctantly, eyes avoiding yours.

With a giggle, you shoo him back to his spot, watching as he prepares to hunch over paper and dust for another hour...

Exactly one hour later, you are done wiping down the last of the shelves, fingers pruny and hair sticking to your skin like barnacles to an exposed hull, steaming in humid, musty air. It felt disgusting but you don’t think it is as bad as how Ginjima must be feeling.

You slap dirty fingers over your mouth, muffling the snickers that threaten to spill from your lips at the sight.

With exhaustion and cramps blunting his movements, Ginjima looks up at you tiredly, his neck the only thing he can move at this point.

His hair is covered in a thick layer of dust, speckled with soot, dyeing natural light roots into a dark shade of silver.

Stopping next to him, you finally let loose the laughter that has gathered in your chest in one long and mighty howl, hand slapping your thigh.

“Taking hair tips from Osamu?” You couldn’t help but tease him a little.

Ginjima grumbles and turns his head away from you, the tips of his ears turning red as embarrassment floods him. He drops the dust-free book in his hand to the floor between his knees.

Growling, he shakes his head furiously, sending a flurry of snow-dust scattering into the air. Sandy fox ears twitch in irritation from the soot and dust. Fur that was once clean and bright is now a chalky grey, small clouds puffing up with every twitch.

You can tell Ginjima is bothered by the grime coating him. He has always taken good care of his fox-traits whenever they are manifested - which is nearly the entire time - and the way his fox-tail is swishing back and forth told of the displeasure he did not voice.

You cough through the remnants of your amusement, pulling the collar of your clothes up to your nose as you squat next to him.

“Here, let me help you.”

Pulling a handkerchief from your sleeve pocket, you hand it to him and gesture for him to press it to his nose.

In his confusion, Ginjima did as instructed before he realized he was doing it. When you reach your hands up to his head however, he jerks back, falling onto his butt in his alarm.

“W-What do ya’ think yer’re doin’?!” he demands, swatting your hand away with the handkerchief like a chaste maiden straight out of scriptures.

You stare at him in exasperation, lightly slapping his swatting hand away. Briefly, you are reminded of the time when Osamu held down Atsumu with his illusion magic, enabling you to touch Atsumu’s fox ears.

“Helping you, you dummy. Don’t be such a drama queen. You’re like Atsumu, gosh-” you mutter to yourself as you stand to grab the chair and the bottle of clean water you have been using to wipe the shelves.

Ginjima gapes at you in shock and horror, taking offense at the comparison. Him, like Atsumu?!

Now he understands Osamu’s offense whenever anyone compares him to his brother. It feels terrible.

When you return, you drop the chair right next to him, narrowly missing his splayed fingers.

“Stay still!” Taking a seat, you uncap the bottle.

“N-No, it’s fine- aghh!”

Before he can say anymore and escape, you spray him with water, squeezing the bottle with a sly grin.

If anyone asks, you are going to deny enjoying this.

What protests Ginjima had disappears as soon as the first of your fingers begin to rub up his fox ears. His body locks up at the foreign sensation, hyper-aware that it is a pair of human hands touching him.

For most of his life, contact with humans has been that of violence.

This is new. Highly unfamiliar.

Refreshing water runs down his neck, cooling hot skin that hasn’t been less than warm the entire day.

You slowly pour water onto his fox ears first, before doing the same to his hair; enough to soak up the dust, not enough to drench. With an extra clean cloth, you pat along his ears, smiling to yourself when they twitch under each touch.

You can’t see his face but peering over his shoulder lets you see the tips of his toes, curling and uncurling in time to each soft squeeze of the cloth. His fingers drum nervously, wrapped around his ankles.

“My mum used to wash my hair like this when I was younger,” you tell him as you continue patting out the dust from his hair.

Ginjima peers at you shyly, curiously. He didn’t say anything in response, only a noncommittal noise of acknowledgement that he heard you. His fingers stop drumming.

“I don’t know about you but I always thought this feels nice, having someone wash my hair,” you continue absentmindedly, mind preoccupied with your task. “Though I’m really just trying to get the dirt out- wow, this patch here is stubborn- okay, got it.”

There is a short pause before Ginjima says anything.

“My father never did this for me so I never had anyone...w-wash my hair before,” he trails off awkwardly, mumbling.

“Oh...I see. Your mother is a human, then...” Your voice lowers alongside your hands.

Then, shaking your head of encroaching dampening thoughts and emotions, you continue massaging Ginjima’s head and ears with your bare hands, dirty cloth discarded.

You managed to clean most of the dust and Ginjima can wash out what remains later. For now, you just felt like giving him a simple massage. He sounds like he really needs one, if the pops from his joints earlier were anything to go by.

If Ginjima noticed that you were no longer kneading out the dust from his hair, he didn’t say anything.

Minutes passed and Ginjima still hadn't said anything or tried to run away from you. Growing suspicious, you lean down to check on him-

Only to find him asleep, peacefully dozing off, breaths slow and even.

With a small smile, you straighten back up and continue lightly rubbing along the nape of his neck, deciding to let him nap a little while longer.

...but not before you took a sneaky swipe at his ear, sliding your fingers up the length of rough fur.

It flicked but Ginjima did not wake, not until later.

Much later.

Akagi Michinari is curious by nurture.

As one of the fox-folk’s last line of defense against anything that threatens his village and kin, Akagi takes it upon himself to inspect anything and everything, learning their traits and characteristics, gleaning even the smallest of information. Sometimes, the most miniscule of details can turn momentum to their favor.

So when he passed by Ginjima in the bathhouse that evening, red-faced and muttering about “ear...scratches...” and something “-bad feelin’” alongside the utterance of your name, it certainly caught his attention.

Scratches? Did you attack Ginjima?

Casting a quick once over on Ginjima though, he couldn’t see any injury on him...yet, his junior froze, red as Atsumu’s clothes and shuffled off when Akagi tried to question him about it.

The strange incident with Ginjima - in a bathhouse of all places - is concerning enough to bring Akagi straight to you.

“What did ya’ do to Ginjima?” he demanded, accosting you on your way back to Suna’s home, which continues to be your guest quarters.

Squinting through silver darkness at Akagi, with his arms crossed and eyes scrutinizing, you blink at him with no small amount of confusion.

“Ginjima? I didn’t do anything to him...did something happen?” Did he pull a muscle from all his hunching earlier today?

“Ya’ tell me. He mentioned somethin’ about ya’ just now.” Akagi’s eyes further narrow on you, inspecting for any hint of a lie.

You throw your hands up defensively. “I really didn’t do anything! We didn’t always get along but you know me by now, Akagi.”

Hurt crosses your features, and Akagi takes a step back from you with a sigh, giving you a modicum of space. It’s not like he wants to do this either; there were times where he even had to question his own kin and brothers-in-arms. With his position, nothing can be overlooked. The fox-folks did so a decade ago, and they have suffered for it.

He runs a hand through his hair, catching the tips of his fox ears when he does so.

“I caught Ginjima mutterin’ strange things when I saw him earlier, yer name amongst them.” His eyes flick back toward you, steely yet apologetic. “It’s my duty to ensure Inarizaki’s safety- both within and without. Don’t take it personally.”

It hasn’t been all that long since you knew them; it will never measure to a decade of agony and hostility that has festered into prejudice. You got this far with them through patience that rivals Buddha’s. A patience that blurs with stubbornness, the same patience that saw you through many of your own challenges in life. The same patience you are willing into being at this moment.

You suck in a breath, biting down the complaints on your tongue, empathizing with his position and plight.

“Okay. Ask me anything. I have nothing to hide, you’ll see.” You give him a smile, showing Akagi your cooperation.

He nods, brow briefly softening in thanks. “As far as I’m aware, ya’ and Ginjima worked together on cleanin’ out the shelves and books. Let’s start from there.”

There wasn’t anything of note in your day but you recount your plain work with Ginjima nonetheless, trying to remember if Ginjima ever injured himself during the course of it.

“-and that was it, I swear.”

Akagi frowns when you finish, unable to detect any lie from you and yet, there isn’t anything outstanding during your time with Ginjima. Perhaps he was blowing this out of proportion…maybe Ginjima scratched himself on a piece of wood or possibly even a papercut?

“What did Ginjima say exactly?” you prod, as intent as Akagi on figuring out what is bothering the light-haired fox-folk. If something happened to Ginjima whilst you were there and unable to stop it-

“Head scratches.”

“Huh?”

“Something about head scratches. Or ear. I don’t know what he said. He left pretty quickly.”

“...”

You couldn’t stop yourself from snorting, devolving into light-hearted snickers.

Ohh, these fox-folks, they were going to be the death of you one of these days - if not by a physical confrontation, then with their charming naivety.

For as gifted many of the fox-folks are with their unique skill set, they are also adorably...un-worldly.

But you don’t blame them. Can’t.

They’ve disconnected themselves from the world, from others, for so long and the effects of that - beyond mistrust and antagonism - are beginning to show the more you interact with them.

You smile at Akagi knowingly, amusement tugging your cheeks.

“I think I figured out what might be perturbing Ginjima.”

“Really?” One of Akagi’s brow rises dubiously. “Tell me.”

Plopping onto a nearby bench, you pat the space next to you with a grin.

“It’s easier to show you.”

Akagi’s eyes narrow but he sits himself down nonetheless, albeit warily, turning his back to you when you spin a finger at him.

“Don’t try anythin' funny-”

His warning cuts off as he stiffens immediately, turning rigid as rocks when your fingers slide up the back of his head from the neck up, tips touching the base of his fox ears.

Is this-??

Is this what you-???

Isn’t this what you did to Atsumu that one ti-

You begin scratching at the base of his fox ears.

“!!!”

Akagi quickly figures out what Ginjima had been muttering about soon after:

“Those ear scratches...it’s not a bad feelin’.”

Having personally scratched and patted the fox ears of Atsumu, Ginjima, and now Akagi up close, you came to a realization.

As gruff and antagonistic some of the fox-folks might come off, especially in regards to humans - and you - in particular, they all possessed one absolute weakness:

A good scritch.

These are the Inarizaki House fox-folks! The elusive threat of the West! Masters of Disguises and Illusions!!

...And they are susceptible to a good scritch on the ears.

Astounding.

There is a type of power, addicting and sweet, that comes with such knowledge.

Very much like Ginjima, Akagi displayed a very positive - though unwilling - reaction when you began to scratch his fox ears yesterday night. And of course, you haven’t forgotten the power- ahem, effect - you had on Atsumu that day in the forest either.

Despite his rage and ear-shattering screams, Atsumu clearly liked having his ear scratched, a fact that you try not to rub into his face too much to spare him the last of his dignity.

You’ve seen videos of foxes chattering, eyes closed in crescents and all smiley fangs when receiving a good scratch. And now you suppose the fox-folks are indeed...well, foxes, in a sense.

Flexing your fingers, you stare at it in awe, processing the power these fingers of yours possess. Literal power, right at your fingertips!

...You want to test it.

You want to test your theory that the fox-folks of Inarizaki House are weak to scritches, of all things.

(No, not test this newfound power! ...well, maybe a little)

Looking around for a suitable test subject, your eyes land on Omimi Ren, speaking to Aran at the training field a little ways away from where you are. As you eye the dark fox ears sitting on Omimi’s head, a mischievous grin lifts your lips.

Omimi is nice, compared to his other more zealous fox-folks. He’s kind of scary at times but that’s due to the fact that he doesn’t speak so much, if at all.

Even Thoughtful Suna is downright terrifying, gaze and tongue turning sharp - scathing - when pushed to his limits. Not Omimi though. Other than Kita, he is the easiest and nicest test subject you can ask for.

Mind set, you make a beeline to the fox-folk and bear-folk.

Aran grunts at you with a frown when you near, arms crossing disapprovingly.

“What are ya’ doin’ here? This is the trainin’ field. If ya’ can’t defend yerself, move off.”

Aran is sensible and has a good head on his shoulders. But he's also very no-nonsense and less likely to acquiesce to your...request. Not to mention, he’s technically a bear-folk even if he’s spent the majority of his life with the foxes.

Also, you don’t know if scritches work on bears, and surely giving bears of any kind headpats is not advisable.

You ignore Aran and the way he bristles at your impudence, much too eager and focused on your self-assigned mission to worry about an angry bear.

“Omimi,” you begin sweetly, shuffling one foot in front of the other.

Omimi blinks at you, his staring the only indication that you have his attention.

This mission warrants the big guns and all the best in your meager arsenal. So you bite your bottom lips, chewing on it like a nervous child. Brows upturning and eyes widening, you give Omimi your best puppy dog eyes.

“Can I touch your ears?”

“No.”

Rejected.

“Please! It’s just for a little bit! I want to test something-” you continue to plead, hands clasping together.

You must touch his fox ears! If your theory proves correct, you have the ultimate defense against any of the fox-folks who try to bully you in the future (aka the Miya twins).

If this works on Omimi, it will definitely work on the others.

Omimi shakes his head, brows furrowing in confusion.

Why do you need to touch his fox ears? What do you need to test that requires touching his fox ears?

Aran shoos you off the training field, keen on returning back to practicing maneuvers with Omimi and the two thought that would be the end of that.

But spirits, you were nothing if not relentless and they had to give it to you. Perhaps your experiences in Hyquile has strengthened you - or simply made you stubborn - much more than they thought.

On and off through the morning, Omimi can feel your eyes boring into the back of his head. Or more specifically, the top of his head, where his precious fox ears are.

He had a mind to morph them away until you gave up. But he isn’t like Suna, who is used to not having any of his fox traits manifested. To Omimi, removing them is akin to removing his clothes.

At one point, you even tried to touch his ears when you thought he wasn’t looking! He easily evaded your hand, standing to his full height where you can’t reach them even on your tippy toes.

“She’s determined, I’ll give her that,” Aran had said after he witnessed your foiled attempt.

The bear-folk rarely involves himself in the affairs of others, especially those that do not have any direct effect on Kita or the village. Yet, even he could not help being curious as to why you want to touch Omimi’s fox ears, and what it is exactly you wish to test.

And why not his ears?

Subconsciously, Aran put a hand to his round bear ears.

(Surely there’s nothing wrong with bear ears?)

Come late noon, Omimi is relieved - and Aran surprised - to see you've stopped trying to touch his ears after hours of persistence. Instead, whilst on their way to the bathhouses, they find you at the lot where the library is being constructed.

Scratching a red-faced Ginjima on the back of his fox ears.

Ginjima’s face is twisted, nose scrunched and teeth biting forcefully into his lip with hands clenched into shaking fists. They would have thought he’s in pain if it wasn’t for his fox-tail swishing back and forth furiously behind him.

A sign of happiness and pleasure.

When Ginjima spots them, he all but rips himself away from you, stuttering an excuse before dashing off to lug more wood, leaving you to stare after him in confusion at his abrupt departure.

Omimi runs a hand through sweaty hair, inadvertently touching his own fox ears.

It’s not just because you are a human that he, and many of his kin, are opposed to having you touch any of their manifested fox-traits. Or any other human for that matter.

Their fox traits are important to the fox-folks. It is not only a hallmark of their abilities and characteristics, but also what sets them apart from humans, from who they are birthed.

For it is also humans that massacred their brethren. Burned, flooded, and pillaged their homes years ago.

So many years were spent isolating and detaching themselves from the parts of them that are human, keeping their fox ears and tails manifested at all times even if it is an inconvenience during rains and storms.

Not many could be like Suna, without the ears and tails that distinctly separates him from humans.

To have a human touch this part of them that has become a symbol of their dissociation is greatly personal. Even amongst their own kind, it is never done without a bond of trust.

That you do not understand that is no fault of yours.

Though Omimi has yet to grasp the reason why you are so intent on touching his fox ears, the sight of you touching a willing Ginjima’s fox ears made him realize something. Realize that you have been an ally to his kin since the moment you came to the village. He doesn’t know you as well as some of the others, but perhaps, it is time for him to open up his mind.

If young Ginjima can do it, then as his senior and superior, Omimi cannot fall behind.

You start when Omimi approaches you, Aran right behind him. Like you, the bear-folk is wondering what Omimi has in mind when the tall fox-folk stops right in front of you, a little too close for comfort, with an intense, almost constipated, and conflicted expression.

Like he’s struggling with something he wants to do but at the same time, doesn’t.

(It’s an expression you’ve seen the Kenma of your world do sometimes, when he is unable to decide whether to pull on a character banner or not.)

What you did not expect was for Omimi to wordlessly lean down, tipping his head enough that you can now easily reach his fox ears that you’ve been trying to touch all morning.

Your jaw slides open, and so does Aran’s.

Is he…?

“Oi, Omimi, what are ya’-”

Oh hell no, you’re not going to let Aran steal this chance from you!

Before Aran can snap his comrade out of whatever has befallen him, your hand darts out to the head literally served up in front of you, aiming right for his fox ears.

Aran watches in absolute comical horror at the way Omimi’s eyes widen and his entire body freezes, fingers snapping straight like a ruler and sweat pouring down his neck.

The pace at which you scratch Omimi’s fox ears accelerates alongside the stretch of your grin and Aran grips his head. He has more calm in the midst of battle compared to now, helplessly watching the assault of his friend by your hands!

“W-What are ya’ doin’ to him?! Stop it!”

What is this sorcery you’re doing to his friend?!

“What are you talking about Aran? Omimi likes it!”

“No he doesn’t!

“Look at him! He does! He’s smiling!”

Aran stomps close with the intention of saving his friend but he halts when he sees the true state of Omimi that he couldn’t before from the side.

True to your words, the corners of Omimi’s lips are indeed curved up. His eyes are closed, and one would think he is asleep if not for the light crease on his brow as Omimi fights the urge to express the pleasure of feeling your fingers scratching at his ears.

Omimi is….smiling? Omimi who hardly says anything, barely smiles on a good day, the Stone Fox Omimi - is smiling??

It’s a small one, super small, but on a folk as expressionless as Omimi, it is akin to a black dot on white canvas.

Aran can’t believe this. What is this dark magic? First Ginjima and now Omimi?

“I noticed it after doing the same to Ginjima and Akagi yesterday-”

Aran’s head whips to you, eyes wide in disbelief. Akagi too?!

“-but the fox-folks really love getting their ears scratched!” you beam, eyes alight and sparkling with glee.

“...”

“Remember that time with Atsumu?”

Of course he does. No one can ever forget that.

But now that you mention it- oh, spirits. If this revelation of yours proves to be true, then Inarizaki House has a tremendous weakness that needs to be plugged at once!

You roll your eyes, knowing exactly what Aran is thinking. It is the exact same line of thought that propelled you to beg Omimi for the chance to give him a good scritch.

“Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone. It can be our secret~” you giggle, placing a finger to your lips.

“This’ll make an amazing punishment for the Miya twins from now on, won't it?”

(When Omimi finally returns from nirvana, he discovers the real reason that Ginjima let you scratch his ears is because it felt pleasurable - not the honorable bond of trust he imagined it to be. He vows to never overthink again)

Strange things have been happening in the village, Suna could not help but notice.

Abnormal things.

Suna is often quickly written off as the village loner and assumed by others to not bother with their affairs. And they are correct.

However, they are also quick to forget that he is sharp, meticulous to details, and changes in the environment and people. In fact, looking on from the outside allows Suna to take in the big picture, able to pick up on elements one would not when caught in the middle of events.

It is why he immediately picked up on the unusual change in several of his fellow retainers.

Ginjima, Akagi, Omimi...and even Aran.

The former three fox-folks seem to be...more - cordial? Would saying friendly be a stretch? - with you as of late. On the other hand, the bear-folk has been walking around the village as if the end of the world is approaching - deep frowns, hunching shoulders and arms, slanting brows, head and eyes looking down more often than not. Everything about Aran just feels down and honestly speaking, it bothers Suna to no end.

What’s the village going to do if their second-in-command is in such a state?

On top of that, Suna swears on the spirits of his ancestors that he saw you giving head pats and ear scratches to Omimi at one point in the past week. He clearly saw Omimi easily lean down to give you access when you reached up, jumping lightly on your toes, to touch his fox ears.

It’s...unheard of. It’s Omimi.

It’s Akagi and Ginjima.

What in blazes is going on with the lot of them?

Unable to withhold his curiosity any longer, he asked Aran if he knew of whatever was going on.

Suna was prepared for any sort of explanation but he did not expect the bear-folk to pat him on the back and lament his demise.

“To think ya’ had such a simple weakness...I’m sorry, Suna. Ya’ have my condolences.”

“...what?”

“Head pats! A good scratch on the ear! Scritches she says! It’s a collective weakness of the fox-folks!”

“...and what about bear-folks?”

“...untested. I do not wish to know.”

“I...see.”

So you discovered the weakness of the fox-folks as a whole? Interesting.

It’s definitely something that warrants further research.

Suna eyes the Miya twins sparring in the fields below, chin resting languidly on his lifted palm.

“Oi, Atsumu, Osamu. I have a challenge for you two.”

The plan is simple: bait the twins into a fight with each other and the loser has to have his ears scratched by you as a penalty. Preferably Osamu, as he has already seen what happens with Atsumu.

Who in the village has more pride and prejudice towards humans than these two? Sure, they no longer treat you as if you were dirt but they are still prideful to the point that they are the only ones stupid enough to take Suna’s bait. Yes, this half-baked plan will only work on the twins and no others.

“I rather starve than do that.”

“Will ya’, really, ‘Samu? Starve?”

“Well, are ya’ gonna let her touch yer ears? Again?” Osamu retorts with a smirk, knowing full well that Atsumu still hasn’t forgiven him, or you, for that day.

Atsumu bristles, fists rising to slug one at his brother at the wicked memory. “Ya’ speak as if I’m gonna lose!”

“Ya’ will.”

“No, ya’ will!”

“Bring it then!!”

Now all Suna has to do is kick back, relax, wait for them to duke it out, rig it so that Osamu loses, and send the loser to you.

Just another regular day in Inarizaki House.

“Hmmpfh!”

“In yer face, ‘Samu!”

When you were called over by a suspiciously eager Atsumu - him calling you for anything is suspicious in itself - you had imagined all the worst possible scenarios that would prompt the fiery fox-folk to do so.

Did something happen at their lake? With Kita?

Did someone contract the Rot and require your aid?

Did you accidentally do something to offend their ancestral spirits and are now being summoned for a lecture by Aran, or even Kita?

You were prepared for anything.

But you were not prepared to find Osamu forcibly seated on the ground and covered in Suna’s binding talismans.

One right on the center of his forehead, on either cheeks, two on his neck, and an entire train of yellow talismans lined the length of his arms and legs.

Osamu is completely bound in yellow, an iconic parallel to the time Atsumu was bound in his brother’s red ropes, and helpless against Suna’s magic that is surely coursing through his body, subjugating him.

“I…” you gape, speechless at Osamu struggling against the talismans, shouts muffled by one taped tightly across his mouth, silencing him. “What are you guys doing? Why did you kidnap Osamu?”

“We didn’t kidnap him. He lost a bet and tried to run from his penalty,” Suna explains, watching with a bored expression the way Atsumu hovers over his vulnerable brother, nudging at him with his foot.

“HMMPFH!!”

“This is payback ‘Samu!” Atsumu chortles with a mad fire burning in his eyes, arms spread out and flames bursting from his palms.

“Hrrrn-” The veins along Osamu’s neck and arms bulge as he strains against the talismans.

A bolt of fractal light manifests right behind Atsumu and clobbers him on the head.

“Huh.." Suna hums, a tiny frown creeping onto his lips. For Osamu to be able to manifest even a sliver of his magic with that many talismans on him, Suna has either lost his touch or Osamu has grown stronger. Either way, Suna doesn’t like it.

“Hrrrrnnn!!” Osamu writhes against the talisman, feeling the foreign force pulsing into his skin grow stronger until he can no longer even fight it.

“A bet is a bet, Osamu,” Suna kneels in front of the grey-haired male, slapping a talisman onto Atsumu’s leg when he doesn’t stop kicking his brother. “You lost the round with Atsumu so this is your penalty.”

Suna gestures at you.

You’re the penalty?

What can you possibly do as punishment-

“Touch his ears,” Suna instructs.

“Huh??”

“Touch his damn ears!!” Atsumu growls, fingers clenching in excitement. The anticipation and excitement blowing forth from him is so palpable it feels like something’s on fire-

“Atsumu, your tail is burning,” Suna informs, utterly unbothered by the grey smoke puffing from Atsumu.

Sure enough, the end of Atsumu’s tail is burning, a tiny flame eating at gold and turning it black.

Atsumu beats the fire out of his tail, muttering a string of curses as he examines the singed end.

You can’t help but think Atsumu will lose all of his tail one day. First it got clipped off by the portal to Aoba, and now self-immolation?

Suna sighs. “It happens sometimes when he gets too excited. He’s nothing but a fire hazard.”

“I’m a damn firework, not a fire hazard!”

“HMMPHRFH!”

“Just hurry up and touch his ears already won’t ya!” His burnt tail forgotten, Atsumu grabs Osamu by the shoulder and pushes him to you roughly. Unable to defend himself, Osamu face plants right into your lap.

The shock of having someone’s face pushed into your thighs out of nowhere is, to say the least, alarming and your hands latch onto Osamu’s head instinctively, fingers digging into his sensitive fox ears.

“HRRRMPHHHH!! HRMPHHH!!”

Unable to do anything due to the talismans, Osamu is left wailing and shaking in your lap, eyes screwed shut at the painful sensation of your fingers gripping tight onto him.

“Oh my god- I’m so sorry, Osamu!”

Guilt cripples your stomach. Even if you did not mean to do it, you had unwittingly hurt Osamu.

The moment his face twisted in discomfort, you saw ‘Samu. They aren’t the same people but you don’t want to see this expression on them again. Not by your hands.

Knowing how sensitive their fox ears are, you immediately move to soothe them without a second thought.

Gently, you begin to stroke Osamu’s fox ears from tip to end. With deliberate slowness, taking care to rub any discomfort that lingers in the tender appendage, you tend to him like you would a kitten in need of comfort.

It’s an easy thing for you to do, especially because it is Osamu.

It reminds you of your younger years with the Miya twins of your world, when you would inadvertently nap on each other during the day, childish energy depleted. Some days, you would have been sprawled across them, feet pushing into a chin or an elbow to a back. Other times, you would find either one of their heads in your lap, just like this, and stroke their dark hair.

It is because it is Osamu that this feels easy.

Suna watches with great intrigue as Osamu begins to relax under the touch of your hands. The effects of his talismans are still there but they should have waned enough for Osamu to fight back...yet he doesn’t.

Instead, his body stops its strained trembles, going slack against your thighs and the ground. Grey eyes slip close, breaths deepening, the fatigue from the duel with Atsumu prior quickly catching up to him in the comfort engulfing him.

Fascinating.

So it’s true. The fox-folks are susceptible to...how did Aran say you put it?

Scritches?

“OI ‘SAMU!! DON’T FALL ASLEEP!!”

Atsumu kicks his brother’s unguarded body, furious that Osamu isn’t suffering under your touch like he had. He wants his brother to despair, to suffer! Agonize as he did! But the ass is taking a nap instead!

To this day, Atsumu continues to deny that having his ears scratched by you felt good. He will die before he admits it to anyone, including himself!

(Even though it did feel good, he’s not admitting it! Nope!)

This is unbelievable!! How is this fair?!

“Just admit you want your ears scratched as well,” Suna tells Atsumu. The tiny knowing smirk on Suna’s face enrages Atsumu more than it should.

“Burn and die!!” The elder Miya twin curses and stalks off, but not before giving one last kick to Osamu for good measure. Osamu barely reacts to it, only curling further into you as you continue to stroke his ears.

“You knew about this, didn’t you?” You couldn��t help but look at Suna in amusement. “Did Aran tell you?”

“He did.” Suna shrugs. Then he looks away muttering to himself. “Can’t believe we have such a glaring weakness…”

You lift a hand up to Suna’s head in jest. “Do you want a scratch too?”

“Wipe that smug look off you.”

“What is goin’ on here?”

Your attentions swivel to the new voice and you couldn’t help but smile brightly at the sight of Kita Shinsuke, the Alpha-Leader of Inarizaki House himself, making his way to your figures.

“Kita!”

“Lord Kita.” Suna stands immediately, bowing lightly at the presence of his leader.

“I saw Atsumu’s fire and came here immediately…” Kita trails off, confused at the sight of a napping Osamu drooling onto your knees. He shuffles closer in worry. “Is Osamu okay? What happened?”

You stop stroking one of Osamu’s ear to rub your neck sheepishly, eliciting a sleepy grumble from Osamu.

“It’s a...weird story.”

When you finish telling your part of events, followed up by Suna who filled in the details of his ‘research’ and baiting of the Miya twins, Kita can only rub his temples as he tries to take in the information.

His people are weak to scritches?

And Osamu, Ginjima, Akagi, and even Omimi have proven that theory to be true?

He is both surprised and not surprised, confusingly enough. As a young foxling, he has always loved it when his grandmother ran her hands through his hair, stroking at his ears the same way you are doing for Osamu now.

But it’s been more than a decade since he felt such a tender touch, and the same can be said of the other survivors. What memories they had of affection - what time they had for loving moments - was all gone the second the first fire was lit, further buried under the following deluge of watery hate and fear.

“At least Osamu here seems to be enjoyin’ himself,” Kita sighs, his concern for Osamu easing now that he has the full story.

“Kita, if you’re worried I will tell anyone about this...uhh weakness the fox-folks have, I won’t. You can trust me,” you tell the Alpha-Leader. You peel the talismans off Osamu’s face.

Kita shakes his head, smiling in embarrassment for his brethren. “I know. Truth be told, I don’t even know what to do with this information. I doubt our enemies would apply it…”

“You never know, Lord Kita. Spies may very well use it against our people.”

“I suppose ya’re right, Suna. Let’s keep this information within those who already know.”

As Kita spoke with Suna, you stare at the silver fox ears with black tips morphed on his head.

Out of all the fox ears you’ve seen so far, Kita’s looks the most beautiful by far with its soft shine and silver glow.

(Must be something in the lake water)

Without a word and unable to stop yourself, you touch his ears with tentative fingers.

Kita stiffens, wide eyes snapping to you.

“They’re so soft,” you whisper in awe at the velvety sensation on your skin. “Like the most expensive silks.”

“I-...t-thank you,” Kita flushes under your compliment. His eyes narrow and relaxes, then narrows again, the cycle repeating several times rapidly.

Suna sighs for the umpteenth time as he stares at you with flat reprimand in his gaze, picking up on Kita’s struggle against the pleasurable touch. “You have to stop touching our ears without asking.”

“But they’re so cute!”

“They are not toys. This is harassment.”

You wince with a sheepish laugh, cheeks heating up at Suna’s call-out. “Y-You’re right. I apologize.”

You are about to retract your hand from Kita when he clears his throat nervously. “I-It’s okay. I don’t mind if ya’…” He gestures at his ears awkwardly, burning up from the bashfulness of saying his following words. “I...quite like the feelin’. So ya’ can touch them if ya’ want.”

!!!

If you were in an anime tv series, this is the moment you slap your hand over your face and combust at the cuteness. It doesn’t help that Kita probably did not realize how potentially filthy his words are.

With renewed courage from Kita’s undeniable permission, you continue scratching his silver ears, excitedly running your fingers between the soft furs.

Kita laughs quietly, youthful pink painting his skin from the enjoyable sensation. He can’t help but think this is nice. This is peaceful.

(This is what normal could have been for the fox-folks)

Suna squeezes his eyes shut tightly once, futilely clearing his gaze of non-existent haze as he looks on at you giving his Alpha-Leader ‘scritches’ with one hand, the other on Osamu who is now in deep sleep.

He probably won’t allow himself to be so vulnerable in front of the goons he calls his brethren any time soon but Suna smiles softly anyways at the peaceful sight.

A short distance away, Atsumu stares at the scene from his hiding spot between several bushes, fuming in an abnormal mix of anger and jealousy.

Even Kita is letting you touch him without qualms! And ‘Samu, damn his brother, he’s completely knocked out, happily snoozing away!

Grrr- it doesn’t even feel that good! It really doesn’t!

Laughter and giggles from your group reach him and Atsumu’s fox ears twitch, watching the way Kita tilts his head to allow you better access, his prior shyness gradually waning.

…

It doesn’t feel nice at all!

It...doesn’t.

Atsumu’s hand, against his own will, reaches up. Before he can stop himself, he begins scratching at his own fox ears in a sad attempt at replicating the feel of your hands tending to him.

But alas, unfortunately for Atsumu, it just isn’t the same.

Try they did, our ancestors, to keep the knowledge about these ‘scritches’ that elicit overwhelming pleasure from fox-folks between themselves.

But nature was against them from the beginning, for once a fox-folk has had a taste of the delightful tingles, they are unable to erase it from memory, forever haunting their waking thoughts. Especially when the source is so close at hand.

(Like cats to catnip. But you didn’t hear that from me, lest the cat-folks come for me)

There are also accounts that says even the mighty bear-folk Aran fell to the modest touch of this human that uncovered the fox-folks weakness soon after.

But what is the moral of the story, you ask, young foxling?

Well, unlike most stories, there isn’t one.

It is less a moral telling and more a simple tale.

A tale of how our people grew and changed - learning to hate and live, grow and love.

In the end, take the story as you wish, young one.

How did this old granny interpret it?

Well, this granny here saw as a young foxling herself how some of the greatest fox-folks - and a bear-folk - of our times melded under the simple, caring touch of a human.

Granny has lived for a long, long time. Seen many come and go through the generations.

All Granny can say is, we have a young human girl to thank for discovering our sole greatest weakness, and one greatest joy.

And that is Love-

“Granny, this is gettin’ sappy. Please stop.”

“Haah, young’uns nowadays. They don’t appreciate the love anymore-”

"GRANNY! CAN YA' TELL US ANOTHER-"

"Shhh, yer're in a library!"

If you enjoyed this, please do spare a reblog, check out the main series, Ghosts We See, or mayhaps spare a tip <3

#haikyuu x reader #inarizaki x reader #inarizaki vbc x reader #haikyuu imagines #miya atsumu x reader #miya osamu x reader #kita shinsuke x reader #suna rintarou x reader #miya twins x reader #akagi michinari #ginjima hitoshi #aran ojiro #omimi ren #hq x reader #haikyuu scenarios #haikyuu!! x reader #hq!! x reader #ghosts we see

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graglithans-library · 3 years

Text

Welcome to Paris Fur-ance Ch 10: Briefing, Investigation, and Sisterly Bonding

I firstly would like to acknowledge that yes, I am two weeks late on this.

I secondly would like to address that I will post multiple chapters into the Queue to make up for that.

So for now, enjoy a sudden influx of story for you tumblr lurkers.

Shirou and Ladybug go over what happened with Miracle Queen, and Shirou begins his investigation into the matter. Meanwhile, Michiru and Nazuna have a bonding moment at the Tsurugi household.

Landing atop a roof bordering a fountain plaza, Ladybug looked over to Shirou as he landed nearby. “This was where we last encountered Hawkmoth.”

“Do you mind if I take a look around?” Ladybug shook her head, and Shirou started to examine the area. No scents left. Likely washed away by rainfall. Not surprising with the time frame, but that would have made this a lot easier.

As Shirou looked around, however, Ladybug’s mind began to go back to when it had happened. She could practically see it all over again, everyone standing in the courtyard, or on the roof, right where they had been that fateful day.

Master Fu as he desperately tried to protect himself with the Turtle from Hawkmoth and Mayura’s sentimonster.

Miracle Queen’s laugh as she forced almost her entire team to transform and attack both her and Chat.

Hawkmoth’s malicious smile as he held the Miracle Box, if only for that one fight.

Master Fu naming her guardian at the cost of his memories.

Chloé as she greedily grabbed as many Miraculous as she could after being un-akumatized.

Shirou’s attention was back to the young heroine as a small shudder ripped through her. The haunted look in her eyes made him pause for only a moment. “What exactly happened?”

Letting out a steady breath, Ladybug straightened up and looked down over the plaza. “Chloé Bourgeois, a former Miraculous user, aided Hawkmoth in a planned attack that targeted the Guardian instead of Chat or myself. The result was the exposure of our entire team of backup heroes, the near loss of all the Miraculous, and the former Guardian losing all memory of the Miraculous as he passed the title on to me.” Turning to Shirou, she frowned. “The only reason I’m telling you her name is that, of all the Miraculous users, Chloé had already announced herself to all of Paris, which is how Hawkmoth knew to target her in the first place.”

Shirou put a hand to his chin and hummed; eyes closed. She said this Bourgeois girl was here as well and was with Hawkmoth at the time, right? Opening his eyes, Shirou looked to Ladybug. “I’ll need to do some digging around, but I have an idea of where to start. Do you know where Bourgeois currently is?”

Nodding, Ladybug pointed over towards another part of town. Shirou could see there were more businesses there than homes. Still, a hotel could be seen dominating the other buildings by presence alone. “Chloé has been under house arrest ever since it got out that she willingly aided Hawkmoth.” Ladybug sighed and shook her head, looking sadly down at the fountain. “Her father is the current Mayor of Paris, and owner of ‘Le Grand Paris.’ Due to her age and her father’s influence, the house arrest was the extent of her sentencing. She could have had a far worse punishment. She's lucky.”

Raising an eyebrow, Shirou seemed skeptical. “You don’t sound like you agree.”

Ladybug shook her head softly as she looked up from the fountain and over the city. “Hawkmoth manipulates the emotions of those he interacts with, no Akuma needed. Just being in his vicinity for too long can let him warp your mind. It’s something I managed to learn from the old master’s grimoire before we lost it as well. It would be child’s play to set off Chloé's temper and bait her into working with him, considering how much of a brat she was before all of this started. Even then, we keep akumatized victim’s identities private from the media as much as we can, so I’m surprised she even was called out and tried. There wasn’t a person in Paris who was aware of what was happening during her akumatization.”

Shirou took a moment to think over everything, letting out a steady breath. A scandalous leak regarding the Mayor and a lack of police to track a terrorist involved with the scandal. Whoever let it out would have to know it was willing or used false evidence to make it look that way. Either way, this looks like a means to punish the mayor or keep him in line. Stepping over to where Ladybug was standing, Shirou’s voice made the heroine turn to him. “I’ll get back to you with what I’ve found at a later date. Can we meet here?”

Ladybug nodded one last time as she grabbed her yo-yo. “Sure, but how will you get a hold of me?”

“I’ve heard you like to patrol at night,” Shirou smirked and pointed at the roof. “I’ll just wait.”

“R-Right.” Ladybug blushed a bit and cleared her throat. “Well, I’ll let you get to- uh, Investigating. Bug out!”

Shirou was a little impressed at how fast she fled, and as a result, he couldn’t help but picture Michiru running off as well. “I think she and Michiru would get along well.” He paused at the thought before scowling at himself. He had more important tasks to focus on.

Starting with Le Grand Paris.

________________________________________________________________

By the time Shirou had made his way to Le Grand Paris, it was almost dawn. He looked up at the building’s windows and hummed in thought. “So, she’s supposed to be somewhere in here.” His eyes focused on the topmost windows, noting how they had access to the roof. According to what I was told, she had the top floor’s suite to herself. He could easily have jumped up the fire escape and entered that way. However, if he was going to do this, he decided he’d try more... legal methods first. It should be possible to ask to speak with Bourgeois without breaking and entering. House Arrest usually did not mean nobody could talk with the detained.

Maybe Michiru is rubbing off on me. Shirou looked over to his right and saw a distinct lack of chaos happening. Nevermind. The city’s still standing.

Walking inside, he looked for the first member of the staff he could find. The receptionist, some exasperated looking woman, jolted up at the sound of the door before smiling nervously. “G-Good even- uh, good morning, sir! How may I help you?”

Shirou’s gaze, stern as ever, went right through the poor woman. “I’m looking for a Chloé Bourgeois. Can you tell me where I can find her-” Shirou looked down at her nametag and raised an eyebrow. “Mireille?”

Mirielle paled at the mention of the young girl before looking down. “I-I’m sorry, sir, but I can’t help you. Mlle. Bourgeois was removed from the hotel some time ago.” She nervously gestured towards the elevator, eyes closed to keep from looking at anyone. “I would take you to see Mayor Bourgeois, but you would need to schedule an appointment. H-He’s been a rather busy man these days.” She gulped a bit and kept her eyes down at her papers. “Is there anything else I c-can help with?”

Shirou, let out a breath through his nose before turning to the front doors. “Thank you for the information.”

Looking back over his shoulder as he was on the sidewalk once more, Shirou could see Mirielle collapse onto the counter before hastily grabbing the phone and calling someone. He could smell how panicked she was from out here, and he walked around the building to the back.

Illegal methods it is.

Climbing the fire escape, Shirou soon was standing on the roof and looking at the doors leading inside. A quick check found the door unlocked, and he made his way inside the suite.

Looking around, he could tell it was cleaned recently. Everything was folded neatly or packed away in their proper places. What he didn’t see, however, was any signs of someone living in the room. Expected, but let’s test how thorough the staff is. He opened various drawers and the closet, looking for any missed items, and found nothing. A check under the bed proved just as fruitless.

A whiff of something in the air, however, made him pause. He turned towards the kitchen, and his eyes narrowed. Walking in, he looked around until a glint from the window caught his eye. A pair of sunglasses, yellow-gold in color, were sitting on the windowsill as if they were thrown there. Picking the glasses up, Shirou gave a cursory sniff before humming. Her scent’s still here; I can use that.

Closing his eyes, he inhaled.

The scents were a story all their own.

He could smell what he assumed was Chloé. That was no surprise. However, other scents should not have been so fresh. At least four men, all of the more muscular builds, and the scent of adrenaline. He could also smell a hint of blood, which made his hackles rise. Most worrying, though, was the scent of someone rather important to his current predicament.

The man who robbed the Medical Center was here sometime last night. However, his scent was older than the other men. Whatever reason he was here, it was a short trip.

Opening his eyes, Shirou looked at the glasses and scowled. Something more was going on here in Paris than just his perp running loose.

And at least part of it was tied to this Chloé girl.

________________________________________________________________

Michiru was bored.

She would have spent the day playing basketball, but there wasn’t a hoop to be seen in the Tsurugi estate.

She would have hung out with Kagami, but unlike yesterday, the heiress had to go to class.

She would have gone into town to see what was going on. However, she didn’t speak French. She was also required to be shifted into a human outside the estate per Shirou and Mrs. Tsurugi’s orders.

So in all, the tanuki had quite the conundrum; one she was having trouble solving. However, since the best problem solvers she knew were either in Japan or somewhere in the city, she went to the available one.

Namely, the friend who was just trying to enjoy a cup of tea.

“So... what do we do today?”

Nazuna had been in the midst of taking a sip of tea when Michiru had found her in the main foyer and almost choked from Michiru’s sudden appearance. She raised an eyebrow at her friend’s question for a moment before humming in thought and setting her cup down. “Well, it’s not like we can just go around Paris without Kagami or Shirou. Neither of us has any money either.” Taking another sip, Nazuna set her cup down and shrugged. “I guess we just hang around here for the day and enjoy some tea.”

Groaning, Michiru slumped forward with a whine and let her arms dangle. “Really wishing I’d taken those French courses.”

Stopping short of grabbing her tea again, Nazuna’s eyes widened as she looked over at Michiru in surprise. “You had the chance to learn French? You? ”

Michiru shrugged a bit and rubbed the back of her head. “Mayor Rose offered. She also offered me German and English.”

Nazuna’s face scrunched in confusion. “I thought you passed our English classes.”

A blush started to grow on Michiru’s face as she rubbed her head a little faster. “I did, but It’s been so long since I’ve had to use it, so I uh... mostly forgot?” Nazuna shot her a deadpan stare. “I wasn’t exactly social for a good year before heading to Anima City, sue me!”

Chuckling a bit as she got up, Nazuna smiled at Michiru. “Right. So why did she offer those lessons again?” Michiru’s jaw tightened as she looked up, sweating bullets. Nazuna’s smile fell into a small frown as she raised her eyebrow again. “Michiru?”

Nervously glancing anywhere but Nazuna, Michiru let out a shaky laugh. “I uh... may have been offered an advisor position like Shirou’s?” The foyer was left in dead silence. Michiru risked a glance at Nazuna, only to find her unblinking gaze boring right into her. “Nazuna, you’re staring.” When the stare continued, Michiru’s nerves started to act up, making her shrink back into a ball and tuck her tail between her legs. “Nazuna, please! Stop! It was just the advisor position she offered, not the butt-kicking! I swear it’s the safe job and not the dangerous one!”

Michiru didn’t have a chance to dodge the sudden bone-crushing hug she was pulled into.

No longer in her chair and spinning around in circles, squealing all the while, Nazuna beamed at her friend with absolute jubilation before setting her down. “This is amazing!”

A thoroughly dazed Michiru’s head rolled around a bit as her eyes did the same in their sockets. “Eh?”

Nazuna stepped back as Michiru got her bearings. “Michiru, didn’t you say you wanted to help with relations between beastmen and humans and how we had a ‘unique perspective’ since we’ve been both?”

Blushing a bit, Michiru rubbed the back of her neck. “Well, yeah, but-”

“Then, this is perfect!” Nazuna excitedly cheered before remembering where they were. Blushing a bit as she calmed herself, she waved a hand idly. “I mean, I’d probably help you if I wasn’t already starting my idol career,” Nazuna added with a smile, “but this would even let your parents come and see you once we get back!”

Michiru froze for a moment before looking down with a fragile smile. “Yeah... my parents.”

Nazuna’s own smile faded down into a concerned frown. “Did... did something happen?”

Michiru was silent for a moment before nodding as she started to rub her arm. “...Dad... wasn't happy about,” she waved a hand at herself, “this.”

“...what?”

Michiru hastily waved her hands in front of her and gave a shaky smile. “I mean, at least Mom tried to be there for me! So you don’t have to worry about that! But... uh...” She sighed and let her shoulders sag a bit. “Yeah... He made it clear he wasn’t happy about what happened to us.”

Grimacing for a moment, Nazuna soon pulled Michiru in for a much softer hug than before. “I’m so sorry, Michiru. I-I shouldn’t have-”

Chuckling dryly, Michiru hugged her back. “It’s alright, Nazuna. It’s not like I told you or anything.” Letting go of the hug, she gave her usual bright smile and a thumbs up. “Besides. Shirou’s our dad now, even if he won’t say it out loud.” The two laughed a bit at that and moved back to where Nazuna had left her tea. As they sat, Michiru’s ears perked up as she hummed in thought. “Now that I think about it, do you think he and my mom would get along? She did say she wanted to adopt you after meeting your parents that one time.”

Nazuna snorted in amusement and picked up her drink. “That might be pretty entertaining to see, actually.” Sighing softly, she looked down at her tea. “Still... sorry about bringing up parents. I guess I was just hoping your family had reacted better than mine did.”

Michiru’s eyes narrowed as she frowned. “Nazuna. What did those jerks do?”

Shrugging, Nazuna looked off to the side for a moment. “They disowned me the moment they saw me.” Michiru’s jaw dropped, but Nazuna smirked evilly as she took a sip. “Jokes on them, though. I’m famous now, and I’m not sharing anything.” She gave Michiru a wink. “Unless, of course, they grovel at my fuzzy toes. Then maybe I’ll consider it.”

The two laughed at the thought, knowing full well that there was absolutely no way Nazuna’s parents would even attempt that. When they both got a hold of themselves, Michiru wiped a tear from her eye and jabbed a thumb towards the front door. “... Say, want to go hunt down Shirou and get involved in whatever he’s up to?”

“It’s not like you do anything else most of the time, and you usually drag me along anyway.”

“All of those incidents were one hundred percent unintentional, and you know it.”

“That’s a load of crap, and we have video evidence to prove it.”

“In my defense, I was left unsupervised.”

“Marie was there.”

“In our defense, we were left unsupervised.”

#Welcome to Paris Fur-ance #miraculous ladybug #BNA #brand new animal #fanfiction #Chapter 10

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vmheadquarters · 4 years

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We’re going to play a game of written hot potato! Dozens of your favorite authors will take turns telling this story. Each writer will craft a chapter (with no prior planning) and then “toss” the story to the next person to continue the tale. No one knows what will happen, so expect the unexpected! Follow the “vmhq presents” and “murder we wrote” tags for all the installments, or read the story as it develops on AO3. — Chapter Four of MURDER, WE WROTE is written by @chikabiddy. And stayed tuned next week for Ch.5 from @absolutelyiris -tag, you’re it! ———————————————————————————————————– CHAPTER FOUR by @chikabiddy

Veronica scurried down the stairs, focusing on her feet rather than the space before her. Rounding the last bend before the landing, she nearly sent herself and someone else tumbling down the last five steps. Logan’s hand on her arm, and her fast reflexes in grabbing whomever she ran into, kept the two of them from an unpleasant meeting with the floor.

Steadying herself, she took in the person before her. An unfamiliar woman, wide-eyed and breathing hard, stared back. Veronica’s hackles raised immediately. Logan’s close proximity helped her stay composed and focused. She glanced back to see if anyone else seemed to recognize the mystery woman. A shrug from Wallace, a head shake from Logan, and expressions ranging from perplexed to frightened told her she was not alone in her unfamiliarity.

Veronica opened her mouth to confront the intruder but was beaten to the punch.

“Finally!”

The exclamation contained more irritation than Veronica expected. Her mind spun, unable to process one more in a long line of unforeseen occurrences. The woman turned on the heel of her sensible snow boots, practically huffing as she stomped down the way she came. Everyone else, as off balance as Veronica, remained behind. The woman turned, hand on hip, impatience rolling off her in waves.

“We don’t have time. Come on.”

Veronica moved first, hesitantly following with the others trailing behind. If the situation turned, Veronica could quickly reach the woman, not much taller than herself, and as long as Logan and Wallace remained close they should be able to keep control of the situation. She tried to feel reassured by that knowledge but found only increasing wariness. Hadn't today been long enough?

Thinking of Logan and Wallace, Duncan and Norris… Leo… she took a breath and faced the woman.

“Who are you?” She didn’t try to temper the edge to her tone.

Surprising Veronica once again with her responses, the woman rolled her eyes and flipped back an errant lock of her long, curly hair. “If any one of you actually knew how to follow instructions, you’d already know. I’m your mystery guide, Jen. And that’s all the time we -”

“You?” The words ripped out of her, high and angry. Logan reached for her hand, reassuring her with a squeeze. “You planned all this?”

“Planned? No-”

“Do you think this is a game?” she choked around the anger and disgust. She felt frantic, untethered.

“It was supposed to be a game.” The flippancy in Jen’s voice tore through Veronica, burning its way to burrow in her heart.

“You killed three people,” she growled.

“What?”

Finally, some acknowledgement.

“Three people? No, I’ve been-”

Veronica cut her off again and tore her hand away from Logan’s to stalk towards her. “A mystery game, Jen, doesn’t usually involve three very real corpses.”

“What are you talking about? What three corpses?”

“Just look around,” Veronica bit back. “Pools of blood! Dead bodies everywhere--” And then it dawned on her: “This is all fake. The blood, the ID’s, the broken phone battery...” She trailed off as the cold weight of realization set in.

She didn’t listen to Jen’s “Yes! That’s what I’ve been telling you!” as she turned and dashed back up the stairs, pulse beating with the pounding of her feet. She threw open the door to the bedroom and froze in the doorway, heart in her throat and ice in her veins.

Duncan, rag in hand, turned toward her with a smile and a wave. As vibrant and alive as ever.

“Duncan!” She stepped towards him, reaching out with her face breaking into a wide grin, then froze for the second time in as many seconds.

As quickly as she moved towards him, she pulled back, breaths coming in shorter and shorter gasps, and found herself wrapped in Logan’s arms. The tightness in her chest loosened and she turned into him with a shuddering exhalation.

Wallace peeked over Logan’s shoulder, face going hard. He squeezed Veronica’s arm as he moved past her into the room. Logan spun Veronica away from Duncan as Wallace passed.

Despite the protection offered by both Logan and Wallace, Veronica needed to leave. She peeked around Logan and steadied herself.

“Glad you’re not dead,” she managed to bite out.

Then she turned away, walking off to rejoin the group downstairs.

From the hall, she heard Duncan ask Logan: “What the hell was that?”

She ignored it, focusing her attention back to the situation on the floor below. For the first time since arriving here with Wallace, she felt she could breathe a sigh of relief. It was all part of the game. She wasn’t sure how yet, but she hadn’t felt such relief in years.

Jen’s voice caught her ear, explaining the situation with an edge to her tone Veronica couldn’t quite decipher.

“... syrup and food coloring. And little balls under their arms when they heard you coming… None of you even considered it was part of the mystery?”

“I knew she was wrong,” Luke said snidely. “I don’t know why any of us listened to her.”

Veronica paused at the top of the stairs, giving herself time to regain composure and listen to the comments of her old classmates.

“Right?” She was unsurprised Gia took Luke’s side. “I mean, we all know what she did to us in high school.”

Carrie scoffed loudly. “You mean what your dad did, Gia?”

Veronica could hear the heel stomp, presumably accompanied by Gia’s trademark pout, despite the distance.

“Why do you even care, Carrie? You don’t like her any more than we do.”

Carrie’s response was drowned out by the sound of footfalls behind her. For a moment Veronica tensed again but relaxed immediately as the scent of Logan’s cologne reached her.

“Come on,” he whispered, wrapping his arm protectively around her shoulders.

She walked with him down the stairs, barely registering two following behind. The bickering continued as they made their way downstairs but cut off as they came into view.

Veronica stepped away from Logan, facing the group in front of her. “Does someone have something they want to say to me?” she challenged.

Luke and Gia’s eyes darted around the room, avoiding her and the rest shook their heads.

Veronica turned to Jen. “So, it was all part of the game? Duncan, Norris, Leo. None of them are dead?”

Jen’s pixie-esque face pinched in confusion. “Who’s Leo?”

Veronica felt her patience slipping. “Leo? You know. The first body? The one staged on the lake?”

“Oh, great! We can finally get to this.” Exasperation dripped heavy in Jen’s voice. Veronica was thrown again; she didn’t understand her yo-yo of emotions. “I’ve been trying to find you. You guys were supposed to stay in the mansion studying your characters, but no-”

Veronica snapped. “Would you just tell us what the hell is going on?”

The door swung open again and Norris stepped through, head down as he shook snow from his hair. He glanced up at the stunned faces and paled immediately. Veronica almost missed his, “Oh, shit!” as he backed out of the cottage, pulling the door closed as he went.

She ran to stop him, throwing her arms around him. He stiffened for a moment before returning her hug in kind.

“It’s so good to see you,” she whispered, pulling away. “Especially with your condition so improved.”

Norris looked to Jen, pausing a moment before responding: “Great to see you, too! But, I don’t understand, aren’t you supposed--”

“The game is over, Norris,” Jen retorted. “Now if you would stop interrupting me,” she glared at Veronica, steel glinting in her green eyes. “As I was saying, you were supposed to stay in the mansion and wait for me to do the introduction to the mystery. But when I got there after finishing up some final details, you were all gone! So, I go to look for you and find a body on the ice instead.”

Head cocked, Norris asked, “I thought it was just supposed to be me and Duncan today? Why was someone on the ice?”

“It wasn’t part of the game.”

Bile rose in her throat and Veronica searched for Logan’s eyes with hers, finding sympathy and understanding there.

“But, wait.” Cole’s eyes kept darting between Duncan and Norris, furrows creasing his forehead. “These two are fine, but the guy on the ice is really dead?”

“Leo,” Veronica snarled. “His name is-- was Leo.” She corrected herself, swallowing around the forming lump in her throat. Duncan and Norris may have thrown her, but Leo had been dead for hours. He looked as lifeless as Lilly had...

“There’s a real body?” Duncan piped up from the back, slow on the uptake as usual.

Gia rounded on Veronica. “I thought you were supposed to be some kind of sleuthing genius. How could you not tell the difference between a dead body and a live one?”

Slapping her would be frowned upon, right?

“Could you tell, Gia?” Carrie fired back.

The room fell silent and Veronica moved back to Logan, taking comfort from his presence. After a minute, she whipped to face him.

“Logan… Dick is still out there.”

“Shit,” Logan groaned.

“We’ll go find him. All of us together.” Veronica reassured him.

“You have been nothing but wrong today, Veronica,” Luke argued. Veronica dismissed Luke’s venom, assuming he still stung from her insisting on keeping his scandalous photo. “You don’t get to boss everyone around anymore.”

“Oh, so you want to be in charge?” Wallace quickly came to her defense.

Luke stuttered, taking an involuntary step back before muttering, “I didn’t mean me, just maybe it shouldn’t be Veronica, you know. Given everything.”

“Well, then. Why don’t we take a vote!” Veronica countered in her most Amber voice. “Do you want Luke,” she drops the Amber cover, dripping condescension with every word, “to take over? Or! The person who has an up-to-date and valid PI license, who’s been bailing all your asses out of trouble and solving cases for the last almost, hmm, 4 years now, to be in charge?”

“I said I don’t want it.” Luke threw his hands in the air, searching the party for support. “Shouldn’t Jen be in charge? She’s Mistress X, right? She’ll know more about this place than any of us.”

“Uh, no,” Jen declined immediately. “First off, I am not Mistress X. I’m Jen, the guide. Not the organizer. I know nothing but what I was hired to do.”

Veronica exchanged worried glances with Logan and Wallace.

“I’m happy to share what I know,” she continued. “But I do not want any responsibility for this fiasco. I say Veronica stays in charge.”

Looking around to the rest of the group, Veronica asked, “All in favor?” All hands except Luke and Gia’s rose immediately. “Okay, so that’s two for no and one, two, three, four, five… I think we outvote you. Do you want me to count everyone or just stop there?”

Luke scoffed and Gia took his arm, turning away from the others in the room. Gia wrapped her arm through his and leaned up to whisper in his ear.

Veronica shook her head at them, knowing they hadn’t grasped the seriousness of the situation.

“Great,” she said. “Now that we have that super important debate out of the way, let’s go find Dick. Because someone did kill Leo and whoever that was is probably still here.”

Veronica catalogued the nervous faces around her. Even with the return of Duncan and Norris, morale was low. They all needed a break. But the longer they left Dick alone, the more potential there was for them to find another body, and this one wouldn’t be coming back.

They needed answers and direction or their flimsy alliance would fall apart. If that happened… well, one body was plenty. Veronica didn’t plan for there to be any more.

“Jen,” Veronica motioned to the guide.

“Yeah?”

Veronica softened towards her, appreciating the unexpected vote of confidence. “I’d like to clarify some things.”

“Shoot.”

“Everything here is staged?”

“That’s right. Duncan, Norris and I set it up earlier before they settled in to wait for you.”

“So, these ID’s--” She held up the fakes of Gory and Dylan. “--were all part of the game?”

“Yup.” She popped the ‘p’ in a way very reminiscent of Logan. “Red herrings. Whoever organized this shindig sent me this address and told me to get here yesterday. When I arrived, all the materials, the plot of the mystery, your character bios and the like were waiting for me right inside the door of the mansion. They left instructions with the materials which said to introduce you to the mystery and lend a hand when needed.”

“You have no idea who hired you?”

“None. I replied to an online ad, interacted via email only, and all our interactions were signed Mistress X. No other identifying information.”

Veronica nodded, wheels turning. “I need a minute.”

She turned from the group, motioning for Logan and Wallace to follow her. Duncan moved to join them and Veronica glared at him, noticing Logan did the same as she turned away. Duncan stayed where he was. The trio stepped away from the group, moving far enough away for privacy but close enough for her to keep an eye on them.

“Wallace,” she kept her voice low. “You said you were invited, and brought me on as a plus one, but do you remember how specific my character details were?”

“Uh, no. You didn’t share that, Supafly.”

Veronica chided herself internally. “My bad. Okay, well it was specific about me being an outcast in high school and wanting to escape. But Enid ran off to New York… like I’d ever move to New York. And you’re Mason, right?” She looked to Logan and he nodded, eyes alight. “Well, my card said Enid came to rekindle a relationship with Mason.”

Wallace snickered as Logan broke into a grin.

“Oh, really?”

“Hush, Logan,” she chided, hiding a smile of her own. Clearing her throat, she continued. “Anyway. Wallace, you said you’re a jock, right?” He confirmed her information. “Logan, what else did yours say?”

“Misunderstood rich boy, always longing for love just out of reach. Pining after his high school romance, Enid.”

“Be serious, Logan.”

“I am.”

“Then that is one coincidence too many. Wallace, are you sure it was your idea to bring me?”

Wallace scrunched his face, casting back for the finer details. “Well, there was a slip in my invitation asking that I bring a female plus one, and mentioning the other participants.”

Veronica narrowed her eyes.

“I swear Logan wasn’t on it!”

She wasn’t sure she believed him but didn’t push the issue further.

“And as far as I know, your female friend group hasn’t grown much since I left Neptune.” He objected, but she cut him off. “It’s not an insult, Wallace, it’s a statement of fact.”

Wallace acquiesced with a begrudging nod.

“Which means,” Logan interjected, “Veronica may not have been directly invited, but someone pretty much banked on her being here.”

Tension boiled in their little circle as they all processed the likely conclusion: someone wanted them all there. The mystery, including the red herrings, centered on Logan and Veronica. Their conflict in high school, their drama in college, Logan’s family, Veronica’s relationships…

“We’ll need to be very careful.” Veronica finally spoke.

Logan and Wallace nodded in mutual understanding.

“Do you think we can trust Jen?” Logan asked.

Thinking a moment, Veronica shook her head. “I don’t know. But best not to risk it, right? Maybe she did organize everything and is just trying to worm her way into the group. For now, the three of us are the only ones not suspects.”

After a moment, Logan turned to Wallace. “Hey, do you mind keeping an eye on things here? I need to talk to Veronica.”

“Sure man, I got it.”

Veronica quirked her brow at Logan but followed without objection. He led them out the front door, closing it behind them before wrapping her in a tight embrace.

“Logan!” She half protested before sinking into the hug. “What’s that for?” she asked, face buried in his chest.

“Veronica.” His low growl stirred in her core.

She tried to pull back, see his face --okay, probably more like make out with his face-- but he held her tight. His chest rose and fell as he sucked in deep breaths, clutching her to him.

“When I saw Duncan alive…” he trailed off, voice soft. Finally releasing her, he brushed her hair back and tipped her face up to his. Her heart skipped a beat as she stared back at him. “Are you okay?”

The question, so tender and loving, swelled like a light in her chest. This, this is what she knew was missing. The light.

Impatient and hungry, she pushed up on her toes, crushing her lips to his. They clashed together, the fire between them a stark contrast to the frozen wasteland surrounding them. Groaning, she pulled away, wanting to get lost in him but knowing they had more pressing concerns at the moment.

Logan flashed her his crooked grin and she smiled sheepishly back, grateful to have both his support and his love. She needed his strength now more than ever.

“What was that for?” Logan echoed her earlier question.

“You worry about me more than yourself. You always have.” Reaching up to cup his face, she reassured him the best she could. “I’m okay, Logan. I have you. And if I get to where I’m not okay… well, I’ll let you know.”

Logan’s face changed in a flash, from happy contentment to tight and angry. “I want to kill him, Veronica. I would, if I knew it wouldn’t hurt you more.”

Wrapping her arms back around him, she poured all the support and love she could between them.

“I’d let you,” she admitted. “If I knew it wouldn’t destroy you. But if it gets to that, Logan, if I can’t handle it anymore, I’ll let you know. And you can get as punchy on him as you need to.”

He didn’t respond for a moment.

“Are you serious?” His voice sounded choked and strained. “If you aren’t one hundred percent serious, Veronica, you have to tell me now. Because I swear I will.”

“Let’s agree on a signal, okay? And if I give you the sign, you can go full fists of fury on him. No judgement whatsoever. And,” she made sure to put specific emphasis on the next part, “if you get to the point where you feel it is necessary, you give me the same sign.”

“You trust me to do that, to only use it if it’s necessary?”

She didn’t hesitate. “Of course.”

He pulled back, flashing her a smile so bright it outshone the snow around them. Then the smile morphed to mischievous and he added, “Geez, the things some women will say to get past second base.”

Veronica laughed, grabbing the front of his coat and pulling his head down to capture his lips again. This time was soft and slow and she felt like she was finally home again. They broke apart, their breath swirling around them in a fog as they chuckled.

Being together felt right and whole, but so had every time before. Despite the warmth radiating through her, doubt crept in. She was still Veronica Mars, after all.

“So,” her voice came out more timid than she’d planned. “We’re really doing this?”

“I’m all in.”

Logan was so sincere, he was always so sincere, and shame flared. He never doubted, never reserved, always loved her entirely no matter how many times they broke apart.

“But-” His continuation stopped her heart. “I think we need to change our pattern.”

“Oh?” She managed.

“Yeah.” He leaned back against the door, pulling her with him. “After everything we’ve been through… we’re both still working on ourselves. And I think we both have a lot of healing to do. Because we always do this, you know? Crash together, then fall apart. I don’t want to fall apart again. So, maybe if we try something new, it could make all the difference?”

He finished as a question, giving her space to think and make her own decision. He was right, she knew. They had the same pattern in every iteration of their relationship: start with passion and adrenaline, end with flames and anger. Maybe something so simple could change everything.

“I think...” Could they, though? “I think you’re right.” She could do this, she had before… though never with Logan. “So… what does taking it slow mean? No kissing?”

“God, no,” Logan scoffed. “How about this: we start with keeping our clothes on for at least the first three dates?”

Veronica frowned. Clothes were her least favorite part of their dating process. He was right, though. They had to change something.

“Agreed.” She leaned back and stuck out her right hand, laughing with Logan as they sealed their agreement with a shake.

“So the sign you promised,” Logan prompted.

Veronica started. She’d forgotten all about it, the beginning of their conversation fading as the heat of their connection strengthened. “See, now, this is why we have to take it slow, Logan! We forget important things and get distracted at inopportune times!”

“Hey,” he protested. “I believe going slow was my idea?”

“It’s been so long, who can even remember?”

“I can.”

“Hush, dear, that’s the hypothermia talking.”

“You’re distracted again! Proof it was you, not me.”

Shaking her head, Veronica contemplated what would work as a subtle-but-obvious sign. “How about this?”

Reaching up with her left hand, she rubbed down her ear, her ring finger on the front and thumb tracing the back. Logan repeated the motion, picking up the nuance with an ease only he ever managed.

“I think that will work,” he agreed.

“It’s settled, then.” She sighed. Their lives were always complicated, always dangerous. But at least they were never boring.

“I need you on my side for this.” Veronica met his eyes, soaking in the strength and surety she found there. “You with me?”

“Always.”

#veronica mars #veronica mars fanfic #vm fanfic #vmhq presents #murder we wrote #round robin

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shark-from-the-park · 4 years

Text

FIC: The Fitzier of It, Episode Three

A Fitzier The Thick of It AU in several parts. You can find Episode One here and Episode Two here. With sincere thanks to @casperthefriendlylittlefan and @coffeesugarcream for their cheerleading and encouragement and to everyone else who has read and enjoyed so far. Mwah.

In this installment, James is getting stressed out as Sir John’s resignation looms and he still hasn’t finalised his future plans. And Dundy eats some more.

Warnings for bad language, NSFW themes, endlessly snacking LeVesconte, a badly mangled baguette and Cornelius Hickey.

@litttlesilkworm @boisinberryjamarama @thegreenmeridian @cinemaocd @the-jewish-marxist @hereliesnils @nashilena @itisa-profoundbond-sarandom @idlesuperstar @what-a-terrorific-mess @kahootqueen69 @jaredharrisankles @shit-in-silk-stocking @bobbole @fellowshipofthegay @aconfusedwriter @uncannybrightside @glorioustidalwavedefendor @zaphodbeeblebro @sasheenka @intrepid-inkweaver @full-of-terrors

Contact me via some smoke signalling or other method if you’d like to be tagged/untagged (mostly things I tag as fitzier do not show up in the fitzier tag).

Episode Three

James had an extremely productive morning forcing the resignation of a junior minister whom he would have happily eviscerated for getting caught up in another bloody PFI scandal, and then swinging by Hudson House to comfort Henry Collins, an anxiety-ridden shadow cabinet minister of Sir John’s whose past addiction to prescription painkillers had just wound up splashed across the tabloids.

James was secretly quite fond of Collins, and he put in a few phone calls to newspaper editors to see if he could get them to lighten up on the man via the use of a few veiled threats (his intimate knowledge of what the news teams had gotten up to at their last Blackpool conference once again proving invaluable).

Hungry enough to eat a horse, he dropped into Pret-a-Manger on his way back to Sir John’s offices. He was perusing the baguettes, struck by the notion that without Dundy present he might actually get to finish one by himself, when Cornelius Hickey oozed up behind him from whatever crack he usually called home.

“Fancy bumping into you on this side of town, James Fitzjames.” The diminutive man said.

James felt every hackle he had rise.

Clutching a chicken and avocado baguette as though it had wounded him in some way, James turned to face his rival spin doctor, a winning smile plastered on his face.

“Cornelius. What an unexpected pleasure.”

“Not on your way over to Baffin House are you, by any chance, James?” Hickey was, as so often, offensively chipper. “Only I heard that you’d been sniffing around Francis Crozier’s door...”

“Well, as you know Cornelius, Westminster whispers often can’t be trusted.” James beamed, only just this side of a rictus, avocado squidging out of the sides of the baguette between his fingers.

“I thought, surely not, James can’t possibly be so desperate for a candidate that he’s sniffing around Francis. Him and Francis have always hated each other… Poor James, I thought, it’s almost like he doesn’t know what to do in the face of Sir John’s resignation...”

“Rumoured resignation.” James said quickly. “You shouldn’t believe everything you hear on street corners at 3am, Cornelius. Wasn’t it you who Francis once called the most immoral man in Britain? What else did he say now... That’s it, the love child of Piers Morgan and Katie Hopkins… Oh dear, you weren’t hoping for a shot at working for him, were you Cornelius?”

“Oh James, you know I never discuss my plans with anyone, even a dear friend such as yourself! And while we’re reminiscing, what was it that Francis said about you while you were still doing the long hair thing? Like you were trying to look like David Ginola, but were coming off more as Neil from The Young Ones? That was it. Ouch. The man’s references can be a bit dated but he does tend to hit pretty much on the nose, doesn’t he? Anyway, sit down James, let’s get some lunch and have a proper chat, shall we?”

Struggling not to visibly shudder with revulsion at the idea, James said “Er, no thanks Cornelius, I have to get a sandwich back to Dundy, you know how he gets, blood sugars and all that...” He grabbed blindly for another sandwich and a few packets of crisps before making his way to the queue, feeling Hickey’s grinning, calculating gaze on his back all the way.

*****

“So what you’re telling me...” Dundy managed around a mouthful of pulverised avocado and baguette. “Is that you and Hickey fought over Francis in Pret, and I missed it?”

James swallowed a huge mouthful of New York deli sandwich. “I could honestly have strangled the little weasel-faced bastard. As if he could ever even stand a chance with Francis after everything that happened with Silna that time. And even before that he never stood a chance anyway... The slippery little prick...”

“Tell me you had a dance-off James? Give me this one thing. I mean, you and Hickey having a dance off for rights to Francis Crozier in Pret-a-Manger, that’s pretty much gay culture in a nutshell, isn’t it?”

“Dundy, you’re straight. You don’t get to say what is or isn’t gay culture.”

Dundy inhaled a handful of crisps, then spoke around the bulk of them. “What, even after I’ve been your hag for all these years?”

“Anyway, if we had had a dance off I definitely would have won.”

“No question.” Dundy agreed loyally. Then he ruined it by getting a stupid sly look on his face. “You’re really quite possessive over this Bolshevik boyfriend of yours considering that you don’t fancy him at all, aren’t you?”

“Fucking hell Dundy! If you don’t start taking our next moves more seriously we could both well end up working in a bloody Pret-a-Manger before the year is out! Do some fucking work and stop making daft jokes or I’ll choke you with a sandwich and use your corpse to bludgeon Hickey to death!” James was surprised to find that he had raised his voice.

“Everything alright out there gentlemen?” Echoed the kindly voice of Sir John Franklin from his voluminous office next door.

“Fine thanks!”

“Right as rain, Sir John!”

They bent their heads back to their work, James pouring over his notebook frantically and Dundy redrafting a speech on his laptop, still with a stupid smirk on his face.

*****

To say that James and Dundy were snowed under with spin in the run up to Sir John’s resignation speech would have been a gross understatement. Between them they killed more negative stories about boot-gate, redirected more journalists and called in more favours than a likeable but frankly mediocre politician probably deserved.

James Fitzjames was a born charmer, but the thankless offensive he’d been on these last few weeks had exhausted even him.

Now he and Dundy stood next to each other, squeezed in at the back of the public gallery at the House of Commons, awaiting Sir John’s resignation speech – a masterpiece of class and dignity that they’d painstakingly co-written.

The session before Franklin’s slot was a foreign policy debate that they were catching the tail end of.

A cabinet minister made the sort of crass and factually inaccurate generalisation that characterised his administration.

From across the other side of the house, there was a flash of greying ginger on the back bench as Francis indicated and stood to respond. His lyrical yet acerbic voice resonated clearly around the chamber as he calmly eviscerated the cabinet minister’s comment for the patent absurdity that it was. His words were polite enough but his tone loudly called the other man a racist piece of shit.

The house erupted into murmurs in the aftermath as a completely unruffled Francis sat down again.

Excitement rumbled low in James’ belly as he imagined Francis on the front bench, forthright and unapologetic in his leadership, giving the party the direction and purpose and bite it had been lacking for so long.

He laughed breathlessly.

Dundy elbowed him in the ribs and gave him an incredulous look. James sobered at once, just in time to see Sir John rise to deliver their masterpiece.

*****

There was a small, slightly subdued sort of function at HQ afterwards, canapés and weak champagne and Lady Jane milling around, that sort of thing.

James smiled charmingly at everyone and was overwhelming in his enthusiasm and positivity. Even Dundy turned on his own not-inconsiderable charm.

Many ministers, aides and hangers-on had come to commiserate with Sir John and wish him luck for the future. Also to congratulate him on his excellent speech.

Francis sent Sir John a brief message of goodwill for his retirement, but declined to attend the gathering, which was exactly what James had predicted.

The two or three other likely candidates for party leadership in the wake of Sir John’s resignation were all in attendance, however. And they all had to be seized up and courted as James considered his and Dundy’s next moves.

As the evening wore on, Dundy stepped out to call his wife, and James found himself stood alone at the counter which was serving as a bar, deep in thought.

His soul nearly jumped out of his body when a voice to his left intoned;

“Ey up.”

Tom Blanky was standing beside him, dressed in his his usual rumpled suit, hair as wild as ever. James’ arrow paper-clip was still affixed to his shirt pocket like a trophy. He appeared to be wrapping canapés in serviettes and shoving them into his jacket pockets.

“That was a right nice speech of Franklin’s today, James.”

James blinked. “Well. I can’t take all the credit. Henry wrote it with me.”

“You two come as a package deal, I expect.” Blanky said conversationally.

“Yes.” James responded at once, though he wasn’t at all sure where this was going. It was true that James did the bulk of the work, but he couldn’t have coped without Dundy’s steady, loyal presence beside him. A spin doctor with a close colleague who was also a friend was almost unheard of. A thousand times better to be working with Dundy than to have to work against him in some capacity.

“Yer’ve done a right good job with Franklin these last few weeks, the two of yer. Tha’s just a fact.”

James tried not to let his surprise at this unexpected praise flummox him. This couldn’t possibly be the invitation it appeared to be, could it? He needed to keep his wits about him.

“Well, thank you for that, Mr. Blanky. And I, er, I thought Francis spoke brilliantly in the house today. Very upstanding and forthright.”

Blanky gave him a considered look with his sharp, intelligent little eyes. One corner of his mouth was quirking into what might have been a smirk.

“The thing about Frank, James, is that he says exactly what he wants to say. Obviously he spoke off the cuff today. He usually does. He writes his own speeches. Has me and Ed look over ‘em for ‘im, ‘course. But he always knows what he wants to say, and ‘e usually knows just how to put it, too. He’s a wicked smart man, is Frank. D’yer really think you can be of use to someone like that?”

The question surprised him, but he answered as confidently as he could, even under scrutiny. “If I didn’t think I could be of use to Francis, I would never have approached him in the first place.”

Tom Blanky smiled at him then, downed two glasses of champagne, stuffed a packet of crackers inside his jacket, and bid James goodnight.

*****

Whether Blanky’s approach had been sanctioned by Francis or not, James had no idea, but he couldn’t help but feel encouraged by it.

James’ other rival spinners had already begun to attach themselves to other candidates for the leadership. Meaning that James was now going firmly out on a limb by trying to work for a man who more than likely still hated him.

Dundy, as always, was simply content to follow where James led.

There was a short, and no-doubt stressful, window of opportunity here, a matter of days in which for James to make everything fall into place.

He had to keep himself and Dundy relevant, and ideally still working in top-tier politics.

With overwhelming support from the grass-roots of the party, and the general public generally perceiving him as a breath of fresh air, Francis really was the one to watch. All of James’ political instincts had been telling him that for years now.

And Blanky hadn’t approached any of the other spin doctors who had been schmoozing at the gathering last night, had he?

No. He only came to talk to me.

That had to mean something.

Time to swallow my pride and approach Francis again...

Maybe Dundy, and even Sir John, had been right in a way though. Maybe James did need to inject a bit more humility into his manner.

The thought made him feel uncomfortably warm somehow.

James huffed in irritation.

The thing was, he’d already reached the top of his profession, being Sir John’s media enforcer throughout his leadership of the opposition. The only way for him to go now was down.

Unless Francis really was considering hiring him.

James knew, deep down inside, that Francis was the man for the job. The one who deserved it. Francis was someone you could actually – perish the thought – believe in.

That sort of thing hadn’t seemed to matter very much to James, before.

And yet here he was.

Definitely sensing a sea change.

Right then.

There was nothing else for it. It was time to do what he did best. It was time to get to work.

*****

“Word on the street,” Dundy informed him with a conspiratorial air between bites of carrot cake in Cafe Nero, “Is that Francis actually chased Hickey out of the building last week, James. Out of the building. When you look at it from that perspective, we’re actually still in with a good shot.”

Dundy, having a wife and kids and therefore a life outside politics, could always be relied upon to take a more balanced view on things than James.

“You’re right.” James said, mostly just for something to say, though if he’d considered it, he might’ve realised that he meant it about more than the Hickey debacle.

James didn’t pause his furious scribbling into his Moleskin notebook.

Names, phone numbers, offices.

He had a plan.

*****

Episode Four here...

#fitzier #the fitzier of it #jimmy fitz is in love #francis crozier/james fitzjames #fuckity hi

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ask-the-yugoslavbunch · 5 years

Text

Fic: drabbles

//-dusts off blog- so finals amirite? I’ll see how much I’ll do with this blog over the summer ahaha

In the meantime, I wrote some drabbles! Based on some ships, though various levels of shippyness varies. All drabbles ended up as 100 words, which I’m proud of lol, though some have some notes added on.

Ao3

BosHerze Castle

“…and that’s the gardens, and this is the castle!”

Bosnia spread her arms wide as she gestured towards the sturdy looking fortress. “We’ll be staying here a while before we continue on to Visoko.”

Zahumlje said nothing. He was miserable. At least when he was being bossed around by Serbia or Croatia or Rome*, they had been taller and older, so them being more powerful was fine. But now, he was being bossed around by some girl a head shorter than him with flowers in her scandalously short hair. It was the worst embarrassment a nation could imagine.

Life sucked.

*Rome in this case is the Byzantine empire, as when it still existed it was just called Rome.

SloMace Wicked

“Oh, wicked!”

Primož raised an eyebrow at Vesna. “Wicked?”

She grinned. “It means, like, cool. It’s slang. Doesn’t hurt to try slang sometimes, you know. All the cool, hip bands say it.”

He definitely did not pout as he said, “I can use slang.”

“Sure, Primo.” Vesna smiled patronizingly at him, then paused and tilted her head slightly, as if thinking hard. “Going back to cool bands though, you’re a part of ours, so I guess we automatically don’t qualify as cool. How sad.”

He threw a nearby shoe at her, as she laughed and danced out of the room.

SerbCro Evaluate

“Novak.”

“Krešimir.”

The two men evaluated the other. They hadn’t seen each other in a while, at least not outside the professional business sphere, and suddenly happening upon the other man so casually raised their hackles quite a bit. They gazed intently, as if those gazes would reveal the other man’s weaknesses and secrets.

This show off, however, would’ve been significantly more tension filled if it weren’t for the fact that they were in a dog park and Novak’s dog Ben was sniffing Krešimir’s dog Jelena’s butt.

Novak tugged on the leash. “Ben, stop that. Oh, Lea don’t you start.”

CroHun Explosion

Croatia threw himself on the ground as the enemy sent another volley of arrows, these setting the wood in the castle on fire. He wouldn’t die from the arrows, not permanently at least, but it would still hurt. Sieges sucked.

He chanced peeking up and saw Hungary standing straight over the ramparts, laughing and making rude hand signs towards the enemies. He stared at the older boy in disbelief and awe.

“Are you crazy?” Croatia yelled over the sounds of battle. He ducked down as more arrows rained down.

He heard Hungary laugh, and decided yes, the boy was nuts.

*this is during the time Hungary thought she was a boy.

MontHerze Strike

Nada slammed the trunk closed and looked through the window, grinning. She sauntered around the car to the passenger seat and sat so she was straddling Danica.

Danica gave her a chastising look, but Nada could only properly see one eye, so the reprimand was minimalized. Nada grinned unashamedly.

“Are the—”

“Weapons all in? Yes, it’s all good.”

Danica let out an irritated huff, but put her hands on Nada’s waist and Nada’s grin grew smug. She put her own arms around Danica and leaned in. “We’re ahead of schedule, we could—”

She was interrupted by a kiss.

*Nada is nyo!Herzegovina

MontMace Moonlight

The moonlight brightens Vesna’s hair, turning the auburn locks into a fierce red befitting her fierce personality. Her tanned skin doesn’t fare as well though, looking too pale and washed out wherever the moonbeams hit. Even against stark white sheets, her skin seems too dull for such a vibrant person.

Danica lightly pushes some curls off Vesna’s shoulder, then traces a finger down her arm. Vesna doesn’t stir, so different from her constant moving when awake.

The colors, the movement, it’s all so off.

Danica leaves the bed then. Vesna at night is too different from Vesna during the day.

SerbMont Rose

Danica looked down at Novak’s hands. “What’s this?”

He gave her an irritated look. “It’s a flower. A rose. Several of them, actually. I’m sure you’ve seen flowers before, they’re pretty common.”

Now, she gave the irritated look. “I know what flowers are. Why are you giving it to me?”

“Because I like to give gifts?”

“Of a bouquet of roses? You?”

“Oh, shut up.”

Novak shoved the bouquet into her chest. If Danica didn’t know better, she would’ve said he was blushing. “Just take the damn flowers, already.”

She grabbed them, just so they didn’t fall to the floor.

SerbGre Gaudy

Novak stared down at the shirt he was wearing.

“Do you really think this looks good,” he asked Heracles.

“Have I ever led you wrong?”

“All the time.”

“How about with fashion?”

“Yeah, then too.”

Heracles ignored that. “It looks fine. Everyone will be talking about it.”

Novak looked down at his outfit once more. “I don’t know, purple and orange…”

Heracles crossed his arms, and imagined petting a cat to calm down. “Fine, I’ll wear it then.” He started unbuttoning Novak’s shirt, then paused. He raised an eyebrow. “Unless you want to take it all off and stay in?”

KosLiech Hypnotise

Aleksandra pulled excitedly on Lili’s hand, leading the smaller girl through the tents at the fair. “The fortune teller’s tent was right over here!”

Lili plodded along behind her, not as convinced that going to a fortune teller was a great idea. “I don’t know, Sandra. Do you really want to get hypnotized or something?”

Aleksandra looked over her shoulder. “To see my future? Uh, yeah! It’s gonna be awesome, don’t worry about it.”

The arrived in front of a purple tent with an eye on the front flap, still holding hands. Aleksandra gave Lili a smile. “It’ll be fine.”

BosTurk Broom

Bosnia swept up the colorful glass shards. Serbia, Wallachia, and Greece had broken one of Turkey’s vases. Again.

Boys, she scoffed in her thoughts as she carefully tipped the shards from the broom pan into a cloth bag to throw away later. No respect for their betters.

Because Turkey was in so many ways their better! Not only was he taller and older and more handsome than Serbia, Romania, and Greece could ever hope to be, he was also kind and gentle. Yet, he knew when to be tough.

The perfect man, she sighed, carrying the bag of shards away.

#hetalia #aph oc #hetalia oc #aph all #balkantalia #bosherz #slomace #serbcro #greserb #serbmont #montemace #montherz #bosturk #kosoliech #crohun #text response

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rorykillmore · 5 years

Text

okay so as a collective piece i don’t really know what this is but @fizzlep0p was interested in me writing villanelle’s perspective re: the few people in her life who’ve been important to her, and killing eve in general has been buzzing around in my head a lot, so this is a thing! it gets a bit unexpectedly sad towards the middle but i can’t really write killing eve with too much angst, so. just some little pieces of character / relationship study, i guess

the first is pre-canon and the other two are post-canon, as a note

There are now several important organizations who most definitely want Villanelle dead. She’s pretty sure it should count as some kind of accomplishment.

The apartment they lease for her is beautiful -- not quite extravagant, but more spacious and airy and nice than anything else Oksana has ever been able to call her own.

Not warm and homey and personal like Anna’s flat was. But then, Oksana supposes, she wouldn’t want it to remind her of Anna. Or of anything from before. Even her own name feels bitter and stale in her thoughts, like it belongs to someone else. Someone who is now dead, both in the eyes of the Russian government and her own.

She walks leisurely from room to empty room, less browsing and more just marveling at all this space. It almost feels like more than she would ever know what to do with, after years spent in that tiny prison cell.

It’s so much to take in that she almost doesn’t see him, at first, which goes against all of her training. There is a man sitting on the still-stripped bed, and really, Oksana should’ve expected this, some kind of trick or test. She draws her gun in the same time it takes for her to turn fully towards him, cocks it tellingly, but doesn’t shoot. Yet.

“Hello,” says the man pleasantly, in Russian. He hardly seems fazed.

Oksana gauges him to be in his early fifties, perhaps late forties. Old enough to remind her of her father, which makes her hackles rise, but she says nothing. Does nothing, except keep the weapon trained on him. If he is someone important, and she shoots him, she imagines her generous new employers will hardly be pleased.

The man’s lips twitch. “I forgot,” he continues - in English, this time. “They tell me you prefer English. No?”

“French. Actually,” Oksana says (though obligingly in English), mostly just to be difficult.

He chuckles in acknowledgement. “English will be more useful to you internationally. For now, we’ll stick to that.”

He hasn’t yet asked her to put down the gun, perhaps confident that he has nothing to worry about. It ruffles Oksana a bit, that and the fact that he is so different from any of the agents who have trained her so far. There are no harsh lines in his face, nothing cold or analytical in his eyes. He looks almost kind. It makes Oksana wary.

She lowers the gun of her own accord, suspecting that might have been what he wanted all along. “Who are you?”

“My name is Konstantin.” Of course, that could be an alias. Oksana is sure they do not trust her yet. “I am to be your handler from now on.”

Inwardly, she processes that information cautiously. Outwardly, she works an eyebrow at him. “Sounds a little bit naughty.”

“Yes. Well. You are the one insisting we converse in English,” Konstantin reminds her goodnaturedly, not reacting otherwise. That irks Oksana a bit too, but she doesn’t let him see it this time.

“So as my handler, what do you do? Are we going to train more?” she asks, sizing him up.

“A little. My job is more about overseeing you in yours.”

So he’s to be the one keeping an eye on her, Oksana acknowledges silently. She isn’t stupid enough to have thought they wouldn’t send someone. “You should see the scar I left on the last man who trained me. It ruined his pretty face. He is very angry, I think, but someone more important than he was must have been pleased.” She wouldn’t be here otherwise, after all.

Konstantin smiles as though this anecdote does not surprise him, probably because he’s heard about the incident from somewhere else. “Was that not the point of the exercise?”

She shrugs in response. “They gave me a knife and told me to defend myself. And he was a lot bigger than I was, so maybe he was just not good enough.”

“Yes. Maybe it’s him who needs more training.”

The quip catches Oksana a little off guard. She doesn’t return Konstantin’s smile, too busy analyzing the joke. She wonders if it was meant to lull her, make it sound like he’s on her side.

“Our training will not be about hurting one another,” Konstantin continues, ignoring her pause. “I think you already know how to do that well enough. So what I am going to teach you is more about… people.”

“People.” Oksana blinks.

“There will be times when your job will not be quick. Times when it will take days, or weeks, of infiltration. We already know you are a good liar, but what we will ask of you will sometimes require more than that.”

“So you want me to know how to be good with people,” Oksana finishes for him. The idea is almost amusing.

Konstantin almost smirks. “You catch on quickly.”

To assert some control over the conversation, Oksana moves over to the bed and sits next to Konstantin, almost shoulder to shoulder, though she does not particularly enjoy the proximity. “What if I don’t want to?”

He turns slightly to face her. “Then you will be very bad at your job.”

And Oksana can’t help but raise her eyebrows at that. “Really? You’re not going to threaten me to do what you want? Be what you want?”

“I can already see you’re not a person who responds well to threats.” The glint in Konstantin’s eyes is almost warm. Disconcerting. “Besides, Oksana. I would like for you and I to be friends.”

So that’s his game, Oksana thinks. Konstantin thinks he can catch more flies with honey, or whatever the stupid English expression is. She sighs aloud, resting her chin in her hands. “You are more boring than I thought you’d be.”

“Hm. You don’t like the idea?”

“Why don’t we skip to the interesting part?” she suggests, evading. “Our scandalous love affair? If you want me to seduce you first, I am very good at that.”

Konstantin’s smile doesn’t quite fade. He doesn’t even have the decency to pretend to be shocked, or scandalized. “You’re a little young for me, I’m afraid.”

Oksana quirks an eyebrow disbelievingly. That’s a line older men are supposed to use at first, she figures, except she can’t imagine why someone like Konstantin would bother. “Would you get in trouble?”

“Maybe. Maybe not, if I said I was keeping you in line.” Konstantin shrugs. “That isn’t the point. I said I would like for us to be friends.”

She stares at him rather blankly for a moment. If he was trying to control her, it’s just as he said -- it would be easier her way. Why put in all this extra effort?

He’ll get bored of it soon enough anyway, she’s certain. Maybe they’ll send someone else. She wonders how many handlers she can go through while she’s here, thinks it might be fun to find out.

But for now… she must settle for what she has.

She shifts beside him, fidgeting a little. “I want a new name,” she says eventually, because it’s as good a subject change as any.

Konstantin grunts in agreement. “You’ll need a new name, seeing as you’re now legally deceased.”

“Are you going to give me one?” That’s probably how these things work. They pick codenames for their assets, or whatever. Oksana watches Konstantin a little skeptically and thinks that maybe this could be some kind of bullshit psychological indicator of how he sees her, if she wanted it to be.

But Konstantin only shakes his head, smiling faintly still. “I think,” he tells her. “You are the one who ought to choose.”

There are now several important organizations who most definitely want Villanelle dead. She’s pretty sure it should count as some kind of accomplishment.

She’s less immediately concerned about MI6 - those idiots took years to find her, and that was only with Eve’s help - and a little more concerned with the Twelve. They know her patterns, and many of her tricks, but what they do not know is that she is alive. They’ll find all the blood in her apartment, the knife, and they’ll have to wonder. At least for a little while.

It gives her a little time to recover. When she does, she can go looking for them.

The thing is, Villanelle is not very good at recovery.

She finds an off-duty surgeon to stitch her up and can’t risk reopening her injury to kill him afterwards, so she supposes she’ll have to pray he doesn’t run his mouth. Not that it matters, in the very brief time it takes her to disappear afterwards. But holeing herself up in one shitty hotel room after another gives her much too much time to think.

And she doesn’t want to think. Not about Eve, for once, not right now. And not about Konstantin, who may or may not have survived the shot she’d fired at him (she hadn’t been aiming to kill, not quite, but there are too many variables in play for her to know whether that really matters).

As a bleak alternative, then, she thinks for a little while about Anna.

Anna.

Villanelle had missed her for a very long time. Now she knows it would have been better if they’d never seen each other again.

She can’t work out which of the things she’d said to Anna were lies, and which were the truth. That happens sometimes. Villanelle spins things to get under people’s skin, and sometimes ends up losing track of it all herself. She knows that when Anna had been pointing a gun at her, it had felt good to tell her that she no longer loved her. Like Anna would actually care. She knows that when she had her own gun in her hand, and had told Anna that she could shoot her, it had felt like the truth in the moment.

But she’d never pulled the trigger. So now she would never know.

Villanelle begrudgingly supposes that maybe Anna deserved to deprive her of that.

But it isn’t fair that she can’t get the images out of her head; Anna’s gun pressed against her own throat, Anna crumpling as the shot rang out, all that blood soaking into the floor. Villanelle has long since stopped being fazed by violence, of course, so she doesn’t know why this stays with her. As if Anna hasn’t haunted her for long enough.

Villanelle knows she didn’t pull the trigger, but she also knows it’s still her fault. What she doesn’t know is how she feels about that. Things she doesn’t know how to name bubble in her chest unpleasantly, but really, it’s difficult to distinguish that from the continuous ache of the knife wound in her side. Maybe it’s all the same in the end.

There’s a pen and a notepad on the bedside table of the hotel room. Villanelle contemplates them for a few moments. Wonders if she could still write pretty, flowing French words in pretty, flowing letters, and pretend that one day Anna would still read them.

She almost tries it. Pretending would make all of this much simpler. But in the end, she doesn’t know what she would say, and the truth is, Villanelle doesn’t really want to think about this either.

It’s been two months since Eve stuck her with a knife. Villanelle thinks that seems fair. Fitting payback, to just let Eve wonder whether she’s alive or dead for two whole months.

She suspects it’s kept Eve up at night, which is both amusing and intriguing. Villanelle hadn’t thought Eve would stab her, and then when Eve had, Villanelle hadn’t thought she’d feel bad about it afterwards. But Eve, Villanelle thinks, might never stop surprising her. She can’t imagine a world in which she’d ever find Eve boring. Maybe occasionally predictable, but only long enough to lull Villanelle into thinking she knows what Eve is about to do, until she doesn’t.

Villanelle’s missed her, really.

When she does decide to pay Eve a little reunion visit, it’s almost disconcertingly easy to track her down. She is no longer living with her husband (something which Villanelle is not particularly lamenting), but alone in a flat on the other side of London. If Villanelle had wanted to flatter herself, she might have speculated that Eve wants her to find her. Which is a nice thought, and all, except that Villanelle isn’t the only person Eve needed to be concerned about.

So when Eve comes home one night, shoulders half-slumped with a kind of recognizable exhaustion, Villanelle is leisurely sprawled across her couch, and the first conversational thing she says is, “If I were one of the Twelve, you’d be dead. Just like that.”

Eve drops her bag and screams, and Villanelle rolls her eyes, because really, aren’t they past this by now?

“Not upping your chances,” she adds, not bothering to sit up.

“You --” Eve sputters after a shell-shocked moment. Villanelle expects her to continue, Eve can’t seem to find the words.

“Did you forget my name already?” Villanelle feigns a hurt expression. “A girl would think you’d already moved on to some other immensely talented, incredibly attractive international assassin.”

“You --” Eve tries again “ -- fucking asshole!”

Villanelle has to try not to laugh. “Close enough.”

“I thought you were dead.”

Did she? Really? Villanelle isn’t sure whether she ought to be insulted or not. She smirks a little, all the same. “You sound very upset about it. Did you miss me that much?”

Eve does not look impressed, however. Eve still looks somewhere between shocked and angry and -- something else Villanelle can’t identify. “Where the hell have you been all this time?”

“Recovering.” Villanelle shrugs slightly. “It takes a while, when you’ve been stabbed in all your… vital organs. Your fault, if you didn’t remember.” Does Eve really have any room to blame her for not telling her where she was?

Disregarding the bag she dropped on the floor, Eve keeps her eyes fixed on Villanelle, almost disbelievingly. Ignoring the strange, apprehensive pull in her chest, Villanelle feigns laziness as she watches Eve move tentatively a little closer. “I didn’t -- um --”

Villanelle smiles at her slightly. “You meant to.”

There’s a stiff pause.

“Well. I’m still sorry. I guess I didn’t really realize that I -- that you -- I’m just sorry.”

If Villanelle’s being honest with herself, she didn’t really expect an apology. It’s blunt and almost strangled, and Villanelle thinks she should probably respond by telling Eve any of the things she’s been feeling about it since the last time they saw each other. But it’s one of those complicated things. Hard to put into words. Some strange mixture of betrayal and hurt and intrigue and an almost tender kind of pride.

“I have this really crazy scar now,” Villanelle tells her instead of any of those things. “I kind of like it. Want to see?”

Eve pales a little, but still manages to roll her eyes. “Oh, shut up.”

“Like you don’t want me to take my shirt off.”

Eve snorts, and for a moment some of the tension between them seems to dissipate. But only for a moment. “Are you… here because you want revenge?” It sounds oddly dramatic spoken aloud, and Eve scrunches her nose awkwardly. “Or something?”

Villanelle’s thought about it, of course. Long enough to know what the answer is. “No. I don’t think stabbing you would make me feel any better.”

“Well that’s. Uh. Good.”

Villanelle gives her a twitch of a smile, and, surprising her slightly yet again, Eve returns it carefully. Villanelle does sit up a little then, instinctively drawing her legs up to her chest, and Eve gingerly sits down on the other side of the couch.

“So.”

“What are you here for?”

Villanelle is a little taken aback that Eve doesn’t know the answer to that question -- until she realizes she’s not really sure she knows it herself. She shrugs lightly again. “It’s been a while.”

“Yes,” Eve agrees slowly, searching Villanelle’s face for -- something. Villanelle isn’t sure what. “I --” But again, she cuts off, and Villanelle’s smile turns a little more lofty.

“I’ve left you quite speechless, haven’t I?”

“Well, I… have to say, I. Wasn’t expecting you to just. I mean. I thought you were dead.”

“You’ve said. With that exact inflection.”

Eve nudges her leg with her foot, a gesture that feels oddly casual and familiar, given that Villanelle can count the number of times they’ve been alone together on one hand. “Can you take this seriously for a second? Isn’t it dangerous for you to be here?”

“Sure,” Villanelle replies automatically -- and then backtracks at a sudden realization. “-- I mean. I made sure I wasn’t followed, if that’s what you’re worried about. You’re not in any more danger than you were just -- hanging out in some minimum security apartment in London.”

Eve looks less sheepish than she would have expected. Of course, this is the woman who’d set her iPhone password to ‘1-2-3-4’. “I’m tired of running. I figured if the Twelve really wanted me, then just -- fuck it.”

“That’s smart,” Villanelle notes sarcastically.

“Well, I don’t have a job, or a husband, or a… purpose anymore. I thought you were --”

“Dead,” Villanelle finishes for her, a little softer. She considers for a moment, because maybe she wants Eve to be a lot of things, but not unhappy. Not -- haphazardly disinterested in her own survival, though she suspects a part of that is just Eve playing it up. “Well, now you know that I’m not. So you will have to tough it out a little while longer, I guess.”

“I guess,” Eve agrees, a little more wry, still watching her closely. “...What are you going to do now?”

“Like, now now?” Villanelle pretends to think. “What is this, like, our third date? So --”

“Oh, come on, you know what I mean,” Eve cuts in, though Villanelle takes a small amount of satisfaction in seeing that she’s flushed a little.

“Right. That.” Villanelle raises her eyebrows, vaguely mysterious. “I suppose it’s still your job to find out.”

“Not really,” Eve reminds her. “I was fired.”

Villanelle isn’t fooled for a moment. “And so you are just… giving up?”

Eve meets her gaze for a heartbeat -- and then sort of laughs. “Not on your life.”

She looks less tired than she did when she came in, sounds more alive. There’s a certain spark in her eyes, and Villanelle finds she’s missed that, too. “Good,” she retorts almost affectionately, and then abruptly rises from the couch. “Then consider this your pep talk, or whatever.”

“Wait --” Eve straightens a little, seeming taken aback. “-- That’s it? You’re leaving?

Villanelle pauses. “Why? Did you want to pick up where we left off, before… ?” Much as she enjoys the teasing - and in all honesty, much as she’d like to stay with Eve, with the force of something in her that twinges a little more strongly than she anticipated - it really isn’t safe for her to spend a whole night in Eve’s flat. She’s not sure she trusts Eve that much, not quite yet, and even if she did… well. That’s far from the only obstacle to account for.

But Eve is hesitating, like she’s actually considering it, and Villanelle almost feels sort of bad -- a rare and unpleasant experience. She leans down close, ignoring the way Eve instinctively tenses in response, and presses a brief kiss to her cheek. “We will see each other again.”

Without waiting for Eve to respond - and Eve doesn’t, sitting stock still and not saying a word - Villanelle turns and saunters towards the door. As an afterthought, she throws over her shoulder, “Unless you’ve gotten very rusty.”

“Fuck off,” Eve finally manages in response, half disgruntled and half goodnatured, and Villanelle laughs before she’s out the door.

It’d be a bad idea to stay this time, anyway. Eve might think she’s getting soft on her.

#fic #killing eve #this was a very spontaneous read and edit but idk it was fun!#and good practice with villanelle's voice #you: villanelle doesnt care about anyone #me: did you say something?#just kidding i dont think anyone in the ke fandom has said that

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idryusan · 5 years

Text

soured.

@idjunseo, after filming for ep 1 of dancing9.

the teams are finalized, and they’re left clumped together in their new color-coded labels. red and blue. so simplistically primary. but it doesn’t really feel that way when san meets junseo’s eyes, when they’re pulled on the same side of that dividing line. and san, like most of his schedules, hadn’t picked this. hadn’t fought for it. midas had just written it down, and off he’d been shipped. he hadn’t wanting to make a re-acquaintance out of junseo. and san knows that junseo feels much the same way about him. old rivalries. soured emotions. in the end, in that midas free-for-all battle, san supposes he won. the reward, in the end, seemed lacking.

a quiet part of him might wonder what junseo feels for the whole affair. but san’s not so receptive to listening to it.

but ryu san is nothing if not shackled to his image, his fake persona within the group. so when they’re grabbed one by one to discuss their groups, it nearly comes naturally. as natural as the unnatural can sound, at least. “it will be so nice working with dahyun, as she’s my label mate, so we can already understand each other’s styles.” that’s the easiest, the most basic. but does anyone expect anything more than vaguely sweet and largely basic when they sit him down in front of the camera anymore? “and maybe you know? actually, before milo was a part of atlas, he used to dance backup for olympus. so i’m really excited for this opportunity to work with him now that he’s managed to prove himself as such a talented dancer.” that comes next.

he wonders if their fans will fight each other more than they already do because it. “sejun’s in atlas too, so i think it will be really interesting to work with them. i’m really a fan of atlas’ choreography.” san admits, and that’s his kernel of truth before the storm of a lie he’s about to tell on junseo’s behalf. the interviewer perking up with a hidden detail “so i heard that you and junseo used to train at midas together for a bit.” and san has to smile. what else can he do? but he’s been in this game for long enough that it doesn’t trip him up so much as drag up that blanket of perfected polite and obnoxiously shy.

“yes, we trained together when we were a lot younger. actually, i remember wanting to get close to him. but i think i just found him intimidating? i guess i was even more shy, then.” a bashful smile, and san hides it behind his fingers. this is very much calculated. junseo’s in a scandal, and he hopes he can stir it up. hopes there are olympian keyboard warriors out there raging about how san had enough sense to stay away from him. hopes it raises at junseo’s hackles. “it would have been nice to get closer to more of my same-age friends and make precious memories. but maybe we can do that now on the show. it’s regrettable that our interests never managed to match up before olympus’ lineup was finalized.”

he’s let off the hook for the wrap of an interview after that. and what does san care if junseo hears? but he bumps into him backstage anyway when they drag off one of the two atlas boys to go next. “exciting, right?” san asks, his voice sarcastic, sharp. and he’s already managed to remind himself of the same haughty, expectant tone he used to level junseo with back in the training rooms in midas so many years ago. it still doesn’t matter to him now, how much progress junseo has made, or how much he’s improved. in san’s eyes, he’s an underachiever and it’s not liable to change. “too bad we can’t trade you off, like baseball.” san notes, despite the fact that he only has the vaguest notions of how inter-team baseball training even works. or baseball in general.

#idjunseo #para.#para.soured #opportunity.#op.dancing9 #1.4 #wc.666 #me: adding in a pointless word to give myself this iconic wordcount #it matches the vibe of the thread

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eblisbaculum · 6 years

Text

In Defense Of

Inspired by this post

It wasn’t a very big leap to say that Prompto was Noctis’ only friend.

Sure, Ignis and Gladio were always around, and they cared about his wellbeing past what it meant to them as a job, but they’d only gotten to that level of friendliness because they were paid to be there.

That made Prompto special - he’d careened into his life with a slap on the back like they’d talked consistently for years. And if Prompto wanted to pretend that their first encounter in elementary didn’t happen, then so be it; all that mattered now was that they were as thick as thieves, and Prompto hadn’t had an incentive to be there.

Of course, there were perks to being best friends with the Prince of Lucis - Noctis would be lying to himself if he said it hadn’t been a worry that turned over in the late hours of the night since Prompto started making plans to hang out after school let out.

But he knew Prompto now - the guy didn’t have it in him to play anyone like that. He was all smiles and jokes and sometimes things went so far over his head they may as well have fired into the sun. He was a good person, and Noctis doubted there was a mean fibre in his body.

At least - that’s what he’d thought. Now he wasn’t so sure.

Noctis knew that for all his celebrity as the next in line for the throne, he wasn’t exactly the most popular person in school. Days where people crowded him and asked him what it was like being prince and how lavish the Citadel had to be were long gone. Instead, it was whispers behind his back of girls gossiping about how he and Prompto were “so obviously gay”, and that was why he’d never taken any interest, and the subsequent intense jealousy from the rest of the guys in his class because no one they ever fancied payed them any attention.

Noctis was used to their two faceted nature. Their backhanded compliments were just a given, because of course no one would outright attack the Prince of Lucis unless they wanted to have a meeting with the Kingsglaive.

Prompto, as it turned out, was not.

–

“Heeeey Noct!” Prompto chirped as his hands landed on Noctis’ shoulders, using them for support as he leaped over the back of the bench he was slouched against.

They’d been released from school a quarter of an hour ago. Noctis had had a particularly gruelling math test last period, but he was reluctantly relieved that Ignis had made him study. Hopefully his grades would reflect his efforts.

Prompto smellef like sweat beneath his deodorant, and when he dropped down next to Noctis and began runmaging through his bag he could see the sweat sticking his bangs to his forehead.

“Man, it’s so hot,” Prompto puffed, flopping backwards against the bench, tilting his head back to chug the leftover water in his bottle. His blazer was rolled into a ball and shoved into his bag - Ignis was gonna stop ironing it, one of these days.

“Yeah. Where were you today? Iggy made you a salad for lunch and it’s gone soggy.”

Prompto gave him a pointed look, even as he took the box Noctis offered him from his bag and set into the wilted greens.

“You thure you jutht di'n’t wanna eat your vege'th, Noct?” He swallowed. There was a splotch of dressing on the corner of his mouth that was driving him crazy. “What’re you, twelve?”

Noct hummed, leaning forward to swipe it away with his thumb like Ignis did when there was too much sauce in his burgers. Prompto munched on without care. How he could stand to eat so many vegetables was beyond him. “Only in spirit. So what took you so long? What happened at lunch, I didn’t get a text or anything, dude.

Prompto smiled guiltily. “Well. I uh, got to spend the day in the guidance counselor’s office…so that’s a thing. I didn’t want to risk getting my phone taken off of me - I just barely escaped a suspension as it is.” The guilty look got shyer Prompto laughed in the way he did when he was trying to avoid a conversation he didn’t want to have. “I…may or may not have accidentally broken Parvos’ nose with a dodgeball?”

Noctis lifted his brows. Prompto winced, putting the salad down and waving his hands dramatically like he was trying to gain the attention he already had.

“Hey! Don’t look at me like that! I didn’t mean to break his nose!” Prompto’s cheeks had lit red, sinking low in his seat. He was positively pouting, arms crossed defensively over his chest.

“Dude, you’re usually so onto that type of thing. What happened?”

“Well…my shoelace was untied, y'see…” he trailed off, eyes skirting sideways to watch a group of upperclassmen walking over to a waiting car. Noctis knew Ignis was probably just idling around the corner, waiting for his text.

Noctis snorted as he sent the text off, and less than a minute later Ignis’ sleek black car was pulling into a parking spot. He stood, shaking his head at him. “Say no more. Your clumsiness is gonna come back to bite you one day, Prom.”

“Hey, I take total offense to that!” He jumped up defiantly, and the remaining salad met the concrete in a splatter of leafy green and tomato red. Prompto turned to the car and smiled sheepishly. Noctis had to press his lips together to stop himself from laughing. Ignis’ head had dropped to press against the top of the steering wheel.

“Okay, okay…only mild offense.“

–

Noctis didn’t really think on the incident much more. He offhandedly mentioned it to Ignis, who apparently thought his best friend nearly getting suspended was funny if the little smile he had on his face for the next ten minutes was anything to go by.

When he asked what the look was for, he only got a confusing “well, he is a Scorpio,” back.

Which made exactly zero sense.

It all came to a head one day when Noctis was late to school - his dad had made him sit in on some dumb council meeting on trade agreements, and he’d spent the whole time trying not to look like he was falling asleep.

It was already almost lunch, so Prompto was probably in their usual spot in the courtyard, so he began to make his way there when a voice stopped him just around the corner.

“Does King Regis even, like, do anything useful? Like, for real? My parents say the kingdom is gonna, like, fall to pieces or something before Niflheim even manages to get it’s gnarly fingers in here,” a high, mocking voice said.

Noctis rolled his eyes. It wasn’t like they even knew half the crap his dad had to deal with. He’d have loved nothing more than to lay into her for being ungrateful for everything his dad did for Insomnia, but a lot of it wasn’t general knowledge to the public, and he didn’t fancy having to fix the scandal it would cause, either.

He was just about to round the corner and at least make his presence known when Prompto’s voice came from down the hall, rapidly getting louder. In a cutthroat tone Noctis would have never associated with him he said, “Oh sweety, that is, like, so funny, because last time I, like, checked it was, like, your father’s, like, business, that’s like, ’falling to pieces’.” He’d adopted a falsetto, high and snarky. Noctis was more than a little surprised by the way he mimicked her tone. He could almost imagine a cocked eyebrow and a hip jutt to match, like in the teen high school comedies Prompto liked to put on when he came to the apartment.

“Oh - oh look, it’s the Prince’s lap dog. Come on, Prompto, he’s like, not even here. What’s even the point in defending him?” Her voice didn’t sound as confident as before, the sounds of her other friends giggling around her. It reminded Noctis of the counsel members who’s vote got overturned.

For a minute, Prompto didn’t say anything, and Noctis felt real fear drill into his gut. But Prompto didn’t side with them, like he’d dreaded. Instead, there was the scuffle of footsteps, a surprised squeak as lockers crashed with a bodily impact. There was a chorus of “woah’s!“ and a "back off, Prompto! Gods!”

“He’s my friend, and he’s never done anything to you so quit mouthing off before I make you.”

Undetterred, but sounding far less confident, she missed, “You know as well as the rest of us that he’s got his head so far up his own ass that he’ll never see you as anything but his little bitch.”

Noctis sunk carefully against the wall. He was all at once furious on Prompto’s behalf, and also rooted to the spot.

In a voice Noctis had to strain to hear, Prompto laughed something bitter and sharp and said, “oh, you want this bitch to bite, huh? Because it’s worse than my bark, honey. Go ask Parvos’ nose.”

Noctis could almost hear her mouth opening and closing - he could feel his own doing the same. “Wait - Parvos?”

“You can say goodbye to that pretty little nose job if you keep talking shit.” His words were biting, and they sent a sharp zap of electricity up his spine.

Oh. Oh.

Well. That was - that stirred something in Noctis’ chest that he wasn’t sure he wanted to entertain the existence of.

“So why dont you and your friends back the fuck off before I smack you the fuck off? Okay?”

The other girls were quiet - Noctis could just make out their shuffling feet, like they didn’t want to be involved in the fight.

There was silence, and then the sound of the lockers being pushed against. With a last scoff that sounded weak to Noctis’ ears, She said, “w-well, why don’t you just go and fuck your boyfriend, Argentum? Gods!”

Her footsteps stomped away, several others scurrying after her. Noctis slipped out from around the corner, watching the gaggle of girls make their way out into the courtyard. Prompto was staring after them, cheeks flushed a vague pink and his brows drawn down with what Noctis thought looked oddly like contempt. It wasn’t an expression he’d ever seen on Prompto’s face, but the way he’d been speaking with the way he looked all hackles raised made Noctis feel queasy in a way that felt…really good.

Oh. Oh boy. Oh no.

This…this was gonna be a problem.

#promptis #promptis fic #ffxv #final fantasy xv #ffxv fic #prompto argentum #noctis lucis caelum #can you tell i dont fuck with latin #we can all tell i dont fuck with latin right #ffxv drabble #noctis #prompto #fic #my writing

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chiseler · 6 years

Text

JEAN HARLOW: Bombshell

Her mother Mama Jean called her “The Baby” during her short life, and Jean Harlow did exhibit a babyish sense of delight when she smiled in her films and in stills, but the men who looked at her on the movie screen saw not a baby but a babe that they wanted in their arms. She was the successor to Clara Bow and a kind of bridge to Marilyn Monroe, and she was more good fun than both of them combined. Very few film stars made such an impression in such a brief time as Harlow, or grew as a performer so quickly.

Notoriously, Harlow didn’t wear underwear, and when James Cagney asked her on the set of The Public Enemy (1931) how she kept her breasts up and at ‘em, she good-naturedly replied, “I ice ‘em!” Harlow had hair so bleached blond that it was nearly white, and her legs were Dietrich-level beautiful and shapely. When she died unexpectedly at age 26, rumors ran rampant and ugly about why and how this had happened to her, culminating in the 1960s with a nasty and inaccurate biography by Irving Schulman and two equally inaccurate movie biopics, one with Carroll Baker and one with Carol Lynley. Thankfully, David Stenn’s biography of Harlow in the early 1990s set the record straight just as Stenn’s 1989 Clara Bow book gave the It Girl a fair shake.

Harlow was born Harlean Carpenter in 1911, and she married at 16 to a society boy, but she worked for a while as an extra at star-struck Mama Jean’s urging, getting her skirt caught in the door of a car and walking away with her black underwear showing in Double Whoopee (1928), a Laurel and Hardy short where childlike Ollie seems genuinely hot and bothered by this cotton candy blond looker. She posed for beautiful semi-nude shots for Edwin Bower Hesser in Griffith Park with her body covered only by a wet piece of fabric, showing off her curves for him with joy and abandon, but Harlow was still stiff in front of a moving picture camera. Bit parts proliferated, including one with Bow in The Saturday Night Kid (1929), where Harlow had one line of dialogue that she delivered in an amateurish way as she looked at her watch.

Harlow fell under contract to breast-obsessed Howard Hughes, who put her in his aerial epic Hell’s Angels (1930) as sexpot relief. He had a party scene shot in two-strip Technicolor in order to show off the pearly beauty of his new star’s skin, her breasts barely covered by her backless dress, and though Harlow delivers dialogue in a very stilted way in Hell’s Angels, she already had a way of looking at men that was unmistakably carnal.

“Would you be shocked if I put on something more comfortable?” she asks Ben Lyon in Hell’s Angels, taking joy and pride in the way she makes his temperature rise. The distinctive thing about Harlow is her total lack of shame about sex on screen, her sheer anticipatory enjoyment of it as an idea, and an ideal of pleasure, a force that totally loosens her up. Harlow’s relation to sex in her movies makes Bow seem slightly jittery and insecure about it in comparison, and makes Monroe look like a sexual basket case.

“I want to be free, I want to be gay and have fun!” Harlow says in Hell’s Angels, leaning back happily on a couch to be admired. “Life’s short, and I want to live while I’m alive.” No bra, no panties, no problem! Her smile is so open, so inviting, as if to say, “Come on, let’s enjoy ourselves,” and she wants to take that enjoyment to the limit, and beyond that limit. Harlow in Hell’s Angels is the kind of person who will make out with you in a bar and won’t care how many people are watching. In fact, she obviously gets a kick out of being watched, in the bar on screen and from the dark of the movie theater, because that attention adds to her pleasure.

Luscious and so gracefully knowing, with her fantasy hair and her freely moving and nearly exposed body, Harlow tries to sound ritzy and classy in her first few talkies but she has a nasal, funny voice that keeps betraying her sense of humor. Hughes loaned her out and kept her working, paying her little and pocketing the rest of her salaries. Expected to play disparate roles in her 1931 movies, Harlow became mainly chastened and inhibited, though she has a brief moment of connected wisecracking with Clark Gable in The Secret Six.

Harlow is embarrassing in The Public Enemy with Cagney, descending to an Ed Wood level of wooden dialogue delivery, and she tentatively played Louise Brooks’s part in a remake of A Girl in Every Port (1928) that was renamed Goldie for her hair. “Men don’t marry carnival girls,” she earnestly tells Warren Hymer in that movie. “They think we’re all bad.” Harlow had trouble seeming like a manipulative society girl in Frank Capra’s Platinum Blonde, even though she had moved in society circles herself during her first marriage. She knew she wasn’t cutting it as an actress and even told her agent that she would try to get work in a department store if her acting didn’t improve soon.

MGM producer Paul Bern, who had been instrumental in shaping many careers for women at his studio, got Harlow a very good part in The Beast of the City (1932), and she’s much improved in that due to the gentle Bern’s coaching, closer to the magnetic tough-girl style of her star period (seen in a line-up, she gives a raspberry to the cops who are grilling her). When a tough guy grabs her hard and she says it hurts her, he asks, “You don’t like to be hurt, do you?” She looks at him steadily and says, in her “ritzy” voice, “Oh, I don’t know…it’s kinda fun sometimes if it’s done in the right spirit.” Harlow on screen knows or senses that sex is partly theater, and theater is best, or “kinda fun,” when it’s boldly rough and dramatized in terms of fluctuating power dynamics.

Harlow keeps her hands on her hips and does one helluva seductive dance for a copper in The Beast of the City, filling her undulations with that distinctive “sex is fun!” spirit she had, rubbing her hands down her gyrating body and fluffing her hair. She harnessed all of her sexual energy and put it on screen without any inhibitions, and it still makes for a hackle-raising spectacle. “Are you gonna try and reform me?” she asks the copper breathlessly, after they kiss.

Bern convinced her to go titian for Red-Headed Woman (1932), where we see her hair being dyed in the first scene. “So gentlemen prefer blondes, do they?” she asks, in that pinched voice, before looking at herself in the mirror. “Yes they do,” she drawls, smiling and giving a pure 1930s sock-it-to-‘em nod. “Can you see through this?” she asks a saleswoman, striking a pose against a window in a new dress. “I’m afraid you can, miss,” the prim saleswoman informs her. “I’ll wear it,” Harlow cheerfully replies.

Her ruthless and hotheaded Lil goes through five men in Red-Headed Woman, and Harlow gets away with it because she is so funny and so good-humored about her man-eating. Bern told her that if she made the part funny that the audience would forgive her anything, and he was right about that. And she gets away with a lot in this movie. When Chester Morris smacks her, Harlow lets out a growly little noise of excitement and approval and says, “Do it again, I like it! Do it again!” and then kisses him, which goes shockingly further with her “kinda fun” rough sex formulation from The Beast of the City. Her growl of S&M excitement is not to be forgotten once heard, once she has let it out of its box, so to speak.

There is no part of sex or the sexual instinct that Harlow doesn’t openly enjoy on screen, and that’s what made her such a radical presence in the early 1930s, and that sexual radicalism hasn’t dated; it would still cause an uproar today if done in the swaggering way she does it in Red-Headed Woman. And she is not made to be redeemed or reformed or even punished at the end of that movie, where her designing woman winds up with a rich older protector and still gets to keep her handsome chauffeur lover (a young Charles Boyer). Screenwriter Anita Loos gives Red-Headed Woman the essentially French and Colette-like morality and frankness that went into her classic novel Gentlemen Prefer Blondes, and you can see why moralists in America at the time were outraged and alarmed by Lil, who is a truly amoral, even homicidal wretch but so filled with Harlow’s saucy pep that she still winds up being somehow attractive.

Yet this brazen woman on screen was living with her mother off screen, obediently following Mama Jean’s wishes. (Mama Jean had wanted to be an actress herself, and she lived vicariously through Harlow’s success.) Compliant in some ways but also rebellious, Mama Jean’s “Baby” got into big trouble off the set. Harlow married the gentlemanly Bern, and shortly after that marriage Bern shot himself, leaving behind a cryptic suicide note. Their marriage had not been consummated, and Bern had in his past a mentally unstable common law wife named Dorothy Millette, a woman who was still obsessively attached to him. Millette confronted Harlow and Bern one night, and whatever transpired between them led to his suicide. Millette killed herself a few days after his death. This was a rare mess, and it was feared that it might ruin Harlow’s career.

She was midway through shooting Red Dust (1932) with Clark Gable at that point, and she returned to work under duress. To the studio’s surprise, public sympathy was on her side during the Bern suicide scandal, and it helped that she was at her very best in Red Dust, with all her sexuality and humor at her command but a new shading of vulnerability, too, just enough to make her irresistible to just about everyone. Look at the pained way she stares after Clark Gable and Mary Astor as he carries Astor out of a storm, which reveals the strength of her feelings for him underneath all the other slangy “I like it!” sexual fun she still offered us. This scene proved that Harlow’s on screen persona could handle a show of hurt feelings, and it also showed that she could be appealingly stoic about them, too, and toughly gallant and magnanimous. In the scene where she good-naturedly pours a drink for her love rival Astor and gives her a little advice, Harlow is one of the most appealing of all American screen women.

Red Dust was perhaps Harlow’s zenith, but she advanced even further in three more films the following year. She turned to rat-a-tat-tat verbal comedy in the very knowing, often scathing Bombshell as movie star Lola Burns, who is “born for men,” according to salacious studio advertising, but mainly born, it seems, to support a family and retinue, just as Harlow herself was. “You’re a boon to re-population in a world thinned out by war and famine!” cries Lee Tracy’s publicity man, and that’s certainly one way of looking at it.

Role and star get deliberately confused in Bombshell, for Lola is called back to shoot retakes of Gable catching her nude in a rain barrel in Red Dust, as if she and Harlow were the same person. “You can get another ‘It’ girl or ‘But’ girl or a ‘how, when and where’ girl, I’m moving out!” Harlow’s Lola cries toward the end, saying that she wants to retire to domestic life, but Bombshell knows that some people are just more charismatic than others, and some women would be imprisoned by the threat of home and babies. Harlow was certainly one of those women, at least on screen.

Cleverly, shortly after filming, Harlow married her much older cameraman, Harold Rossen, who did much to shape her visual image (Mama Jean put the kibosh on that one after only eight months). And then, for director George Cukor, who egged her on to just the right degree, she was Kitty Packard, a gutsy trophy wife putting Wallace Beery in his place in Dinner at Eight, a monument to the enriching vitality in unabashed sexual vulgarity.

Sitting up in her absurdly billowing white bed, taking bites out of chocolates and then throwing them back, ringing out her powder puff, Harlow gets laugh after laugh in Dinner at Eight, one after another, like she’s ringing gongs. She throws herself into her scenes with both abandon and accuracy of expression and timing, a very different style from Clara Bow or Marilyn Monroe, much brassier, more self-sufficient; if she talked baby talk, as Monroe did, it was in a very knowing, parodic way.

Harlow is the only big female movie sex symbol who never seems dazed, never seems really out-of-control. “I’m gonna be a lady if it kills me!” she tells Beery in Dinner at Eight, standing up to him all the way down the line and applying more lipstick in between. (She was sown into her gowns, so that she couldn’t even sit down on set but had to resort to a slant board.) Harlow throws some left hooks and gets caught in her bath again by Gable in Hold Your Man. “Yes sir, that baby’s got rhythm,” Gable says appreciatively as he watches her walk away from him at one point, after she visits him in prison. She is at her toughest in Hold Your Man until a redemptive ending, a harbinger of worse to come.

“The vulgar, cheap, and the tawdry is out!” promised Joseph Breen, the new chief of the Production Code censorship bureau, in a newsreel from 1934, and that meant that proudly vulgar, cheap, and tawdry Harlow was hardest hit by the new Code. Her first film under the Code was supposed to be called Born to Be Kissed, but the title was changed to The Girl from Missouri (1934), and it made Harlow stuffy and bent only on matrimony in a way that feels very constricted and depressing.

They even began to darken her platinum hair to a light shade of brown in Riffraff (1935), where she played another virgin holding out for marriage and sparred with Spencer Tracy. Harlow was at least somewhat brassy again as good-time girl China Doll in China Seas (1936) with Gable, but in Wife vs. Secretary (1936) she played a true-blue stenographer who wouldn’t dream of putting the moves on Gable’s boss, a far cry from the rapacious Lil of Red-Headed Woman. Even her car horn voice got tamped-down and refined back to the level it had ludicrously sought in her first awkward years in movies, as if speaking quietly were some sort of triumph for the “good taste” that now reigned on film.

In Reckless (1935), Harlow was asked to talk her way through a risible song and act out a suicide drama that was exploitatively close to her own ordeal with Bern. She is made to defend herself from a stage, confessing to an audience her dead husband’s unhappiness and how she tried to make him happy, and the result on screen feels very punishing and unfair, so that there was no star who was so humiliated and ruined by censorship as Harlow, not even Mae West. She got one more chance at rapid-fire comedy in Libeled Lady (1936), where all she wants to do is marry Spencer Tracy, and she has her moments in that, but the great sexual thrill of Harlow is confined to Hell’s Angels and her movies from 1932 and 1933 only.

She really did want to marry her Libeled Lady co-star William Powell, but he kept putting that off. Harlow looks and seems ill and low energy in Personal Property (1937) and in her last film, Saratoga (1937), which was finished with a stand-in after her death at 26 from kidney disease. She collapsed on the set and was attended by physicians for eight days before she died, contrary to the stories about her never seeing a doctor because of Mama Jean’s Christian Science leanings. MGM chief Louis B. Mayer had Jeanette MacDonald and Nelson Eddy sing “Ah! Sweet Mystery of Life” at her funeral, which certainly would have made the screen Harlow guffaw. It was a short career, but her initial impact is still fresh, and it can still be felt as liberating, sexually and otherwise.

by Dan Callahan

#Dan Callahan #Jean Harlow #The Chiseler #pre-Code #Bombshell

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eurosong · 7 years

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Eurosong's ESC '17 ranking and commentary

Good afternoon, folks! The clock is ticking down to the final and it's now about that time of the year where I unleash my commentary on all the songs. I tried to limit myself to a few sentences per song, but since there´s 42, this will doubtless be considered by some as a big read. Tongue in cheek in part but very candid about my views on some of the songs - don't proceed if you don't want to see a few songs savaged. As the ancient Romans said, de gustibus non est disputandum, and these are just my views and tastes.

1 Portugal From which planet did this extraterrestrial talent come and why do his people want to break our hearts so exquisitely? I cannot speak highly enough of these three perfect minutes of melancholy, longing, and yet, at the same time, love and hope. This performance speaks to the soul so intimately. It is a pure and timeless composition that I feel like I've known all my life, but have been waiting all this time to hear. Extraördinary and twelve cuts above everything else in the contest in my eyes. 2. Hungary How I love the fearless Magyars and their tendency to dance to the beat of their own drums, sending things that sound like nothing else in the contest. This is one of the most emotional performances in the contest and certainly one of the most meaningful lyrics - talking about the prejudice he faced as a Romani and the salvation he found in songwriting. The music is a sui generis blend of rap, traditional folk and other elements - and the pure passion invested into the lyrics and their delivery gives me goosebumps. 3 Belarus This is what three minutes of unshackled, care-free joy sounds like. Naviband are adorable, their chemistry pure, and their song is so full of joie de vivre. I feel like I’m out in the primordial forests of Belarus hearing the call of the ancients. 4 Armenia Another nation keen to exhibit its traditional music in curious new blends is Armenia, who this year bring us something that sounds at once distinctly Caucasian and East Asian. A curious mélange of genres and influences make this almost as far as you can get from the tired "Melfest reject" mould. I love the non-linearity of this song, and the æthereal feel that makes the song feel like a forgotten psalm to the gods. Great effort. 5 Iceland If you combine dark but infectious electro beats with some of the most subtly meaningful lyrics of the contest, you get this, in my book, one of Iceland's best contributions to the contest in some time. Svala's song is very personal to her and, through an extended metaphor, talks about struggling with accepting yourself for who you are. A very underrated track in my eyes.

6 Czechia Speaking of underrated, we have the perennially undervalued Czechs sending us one of the most understated and sincere offerings this ESC. Czechia's is a very subtle song about strength in adversity and human connection. The music is very pleasant, and the lyrics are sung with heart. 7 Belgium No matter the disastrous reaction to the rehearsals, City Lights remains for me one of the most unique and meaningful pieces in the contest this year. Whilst last year they sounded like a 90s girl group trying to emulate the 70s, this is year 3000, futuristic cool. There is a powerful minimalism in the lyrics that lets their many nuances sink in. "Are we going to lose it all?" 8 Romania You get instant ESC-snob credit by disavowing this Romanian effort, which on paper - a yodel-rap about breaking away from the 9 to 5 - sounds like it should be a ludicrous mess. But you won't see me doing anything but praising it as it is an instant ray of sunshine in a song. I love how much Alex and Ilinca, an incredibly cute pair, love their song and how they put their heart into each performance. I feel lifted up to the Alpine heights by each listen. 9 Azerbaijan For the first time ever, Azerbaijan stand to get into my top 10. They’re still raising my hackles by importing music from Sweden, but this time they’ve picked a credible and glacially cool artist with a mystifying and dark composition about obsessive love. A step in the right direction. 10 Italy The bookies’ favourite by far, and I can understand why - Francesco exudes cheeky chappie charisma and his song is one that can appeal across generations. Why only 10th then from this bonafide Italophile? I always found the chorus of the song to be very dated, sounding like the theme tune of an early 90s quiz show, whilst the verse and bridge has a much more monumental, anthemic air. I was more able to overlook the repeats of the chorus before they made disastrous cuts and excised most of the first verse and all of the second verse, leaving a song that is still fun, but a lot more repetitive. 11 Netherlands I’m honestly amazed that O’G3ne, a band with such a ridiculous name and a dubious pedigree, are on the cusp of my top 10 this year. They sing songs that are so dated that they wouldn’t have counted as fresh even in the early 90s. And yet, their song has a certain child-like naïveté in its lyrics about their ailing mother that it makes it unbelievably moving. 12 France A nice enough song from France this year, but nowhere near as good as Amir last year in my eyes. What really took the song down a notch was the clunky addition of unneeded, comparatively cacophonous English lyrics, which replaced the existentialist French chorus of the original with some throwaway clichés. 13 Macedonia Some fans consider the Macedonian entry fresh despite its reminding me of 3-4 different 80s’ songs blended together. What it is though is catchy and kitschy in a fun way. I have doubts about the live performance given her scandalous playback in London, though. 14 Finland As Holly Brewer sang, “I wish I loved you more.” I should love a song like this, but instead I don’t enjoy it as much as I might because I feel they put a distance between themselves and the audience not fitting for such an emotional song. 15 Ukraine It’s no secret that I’m a rocker, but unfortunately, a lot of the rock at the contest has been sub-par in recent years - or has been “rock” in inverted commas. This is not a bad effort from Ukraine, but nowhere near the britrock-inspired heights of Georgia last year. It’s a bit too repetitive for my likes. 16 Latvia Something less to my typical tastes is this unexpected piece of 90s rave revival, a step away from the cool Aminata-penned electronica Latvia has sent in the past two years. It’s a welcome stylistical oasis in a desert of identikit pop ballads, but qualitatively isn’t great, and her nasal, oddly pronounced vocals are an acquired taste which I am yet to acquire. 17 Bulgaria Very nice, relaxing background music but I don’t think of it as much more than that. 18 Ireland This starts out so promisingly with a gloomy and mysterious beginning, but soon degenerates into an early 2000s B-side that was not only rejected by Westlife but also by an assortment of C-list bands imitating Westlife. It’s even complete with the obligatory key change that launches young Brendan into a register so high that it could shatter contact lenses while they're still on your eyes. Yet, I do find some charm in it, and this would be a contender for places 11-15 for me were it not for the god awful last minute. 19 Albania For once, Albania don’t completely destroy a song in its revamp - they maintain most of the rock-ish edges of the original, instead of neutering them like they did with Përallë. As is typical, though, they lumbered Lindita with a bewildering and clunky English translation that takes a lot of my enjoyment away from the song. 20 Germany This couldn’t be more middle of the road if it tried - so it’s apt, I guess, that it has a position almost precisely in the middle of my ranking. Levina was the best of a bad lot in Germany’s insane format of a national final and she soldiers through a song even she seemed like she preferred not to sing. The riff ripped from Titanium is so blatant - and the song is brought down too by some ridiculous lyrics. “Almost a sinner, nearly a saint.” So you’re almost exceptionally holy and almost someone who frequently sins at the same time? *Head explodes* 21 Switzerland An innocuously bland mid-tempo pop ballad. Not much to say about this one. 22 Croatia A man singing a duët with himself, giving a motivational message - to himself. One half in the quivery, syrupy upper ranges of an R&B tenor, the other half in a booming operatic baritone. It’s as ridic as it sounds and yet this Jeckyll and Hyde act is saved from the very bottom by its endearing barminess. 23 Denmark Disposable pop with a shout-sung chorus, albeit by a performer with some charm and connection to the audience. 24 Australia Musically, not so bad at all, but there’s something offputting about a chap young enough to almost be fœtal putting on a drippy voice and ridiculous puppy dog eyes, singing a song of a life of broken hearts and lost love more befitting of an old man. 25 Serbia Serbia used to be one of my favourite countries in the contest. They stuck to their own language and sang songs imbued with Balkan rhythm and tradition... now they send someone sending a poor rip-off of Katy Perry’s Firework. Каква срамота. 26 Moldova Evidently, meme status can open doors and can gift you a return ticket to the ESC. It’s a shame, as even in Moldova, there were better options than this rather misogynistic effort that seems to have been Bing translated, not even Google translated, and which sounds like it was based off a MIDI ringtone. Apparently bound for the final just because it’s upbeat. 27 Austria This exudes that relentless forced cheeriness that makes my blood run cold. It’s such a plim-plom song that bounces along whilst saying nothing. Most songs aim for the top and I can admire that, even if they have no chance - this aims for mid-table mediocrity in the final. 28 Israel Generic dance track with words plucked at random and thrown onto the paper. 29 Norway Robotically cold. Most songs make me feel something, even if it’s annoyance. This just leaves me numb. 30 Poland An oppressive dirge with lyrics that rely on a rhyming dictionary a little too much (rhyming fire, desire, wire and higher in the space of ten words!) and a bizarre song structure with an anti-chorus and no real progression, which make these 3 minutes feel very long indeed. 31 Sweden Predictable, repetitive pop with one of the most laughable performance routines (blokes trying to act “smooth” by doing very silly gestures) and lyrics that read as though written by Jay in the Inbetweeners. Let’s not romanticise uncontrollable lust. 32 Cyprus A rip-off of Rag and Bone Man’s “Human”, but without a message. Instead, some incredibly daft lyrics written by someone who failed physics even in primary school. Hovig likens himself to gravity because he will catch his paramour when she falls - when it is in fact gravity that pulls her down to her grizzly death. 33 United Kingdom Turgid rent-a-ballad delivered in a hammy style with not a whisker of sincerity - compare that with the virtuoso performance of her rival in the final, Holly, who sang like she felt the pain. I’ve been saying since the contest that it will do well, though, but I’m not sold one bit. 34 Spain Many of us Eurovision fans in Spain wasted money voting for other songs in the national final, only to find that the jury - 2/3 comprised of people with vested interest in one of the candidates - was able to override thousands of televoters when it came to a draw. They put the televote’s 3rd place, Manel, first, leaving a considerable bad taste behind. And what for? One of the most inane songs the contest has ever seen, in which either “do it for your lover” (do what?) or “just do it” are repeated on average less than every 4 seconds. It sounds like a homebrand Lazy Song and the songwriters sure were lazy. Playing this on a loop for just 15 minutes could make even the toughest commandos cry for their mammies. 35 Estonia Part of me wants to put this at the very bottom of the pile, but sadly, there are worse horrors yet to come. It’s really disappointing when your favourite ESC country in recent years throws aside a bunch of daring possibilities to represent them in 2017, in favour of something so aggressively bland, a cynical Eurosong by numbers with hackneyed, ultra-repetitive lyrics that mostly consist of entoning “á-a-a-a-à-a-a-a-á-a”, performed by a duo who have as much chemistry as two inert gases and spent most of the time hammishly gurning. 36 Montenegro How does one interpret it when one of the European countries with the biggest problems of homophobia - with 71% of the populace thinking homosexuality is a sickness and where a number of hate crimes have been registered just against people who support LGBT rights - sends such an OTT act with lyrics that are packed to the brim with single entendres? For me, it seems a cynical move. Slavko himself seems a cool guy but the song itself is a hot mess. 37 Lithuania And this is a hot mess, frozen then microwaved, then frozen then set on fire with a flamethrower. Be careful of watching this with pets or small children or they may well end up traumatised for life. Whilst unbelievably sweet in interviews, the lead singer of this act seems like a banshee possessed by demons whilst singing. Her bandmate seems like her creepy “keeper.” They sing a song with about 180 instances of the words “yeah, yeah” and some trumpets that sound like they were taken from Windows 95 sound effects. 38 Slovenia This has to be one of the most overblown and pompous entries in many a year. Omar claims he was waiting to unleash this on the unsuspecting public for over a decade - even back then, this grandiose attempt at a Broadway-style number would have sounded dated. 39 Greece I will never forgive the genius lyrics “rain falls from abooove!” Neither can I forgive the fact that such a completely generic track with lyrics written on the back of a Cornflakes box is probably destined for the final with the help of some gimmicky staging. 40 Malta This song fills me with all the energy of someone who’s been in a coma for 15 years. 41 San Marino Some folk are happy to see Valentina Monetta back for the fourth year. I’m sad to see a talented performer come back for scraps of infamy no matter how bad the song she’s offered. And my god, is this disco rehash fever dream bad. 42 Georgia Georgia is typically one of my favourite nations in the contest, because of their willingness to break away from the mould, to enter things that are very atypical of the contest and often do well with them - like the exhilerating psychadelic-Britrock of last year or the trippy folk of a few years before that. This year, they couldn’t have gone more off into the other direction, into the methane-scented hinterlands of mediocrity. I find this song disasteful in so many ways. The overt and ham-fisted political nature of it. The creepy music, like the soundtrack to a cheap straight-to-VCR horror movie, which creates an oppressive atmosphere that makes me feel like the music is holding my head down under the ghoul-infested waters of a frigid lake in a winter forest. The ghastly, cliché-ridden lyrics, where “keep the faith” is repeated so many times that by one minute, my faith that the song will ever end is already shaken. Ugly composition.

#eurovision #eurovision song contest #esc 2017 #eurovision 2017 #review

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